


Me? I'm No One Special...

by islandgirl_246



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe - No Werewolves, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Anger, Dark, Depression, Domestic Violence, Emotional, Engagement, Friendship, Hope, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Sexual Assault, Sheriff Stilinski's Name is John, Sheriff is a Captain, Things can always get worse, mentions of Deucalion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-01
Updated: 2018-11-19
Packaged: 2019-02-08 23:46:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 10
Words: 36,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12875625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/islandgirl_246/pseuds/islandgirl_246
Summary: Simply falling in love with the wrong person at the wrong time can have the wrong kind of consequences.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I started this a long while back but never finished it. Posted it to my [Tumblr](http://www.tumblr.com/blog/deislandgirl-blog) earlier this week and thought why not just drop it here too. It still isn't finished but I'm posting this part here as a one-off. I may add the rest as chapter 2 at some point, but for now this can serve as a one chapter story.

“We could get married.” _Wait, what? Where the fuck had that come from?_ At Stiles’ high brows, Peter knew he hadn’t imagined that he’d said that aloud.

Stiles’ silence was followed by a disbelieving snort. “Yeah, and live happily ever after, in Never Never Land.” He sighed and rolled over grabbing one piece of clothing that had been discarded on the corner post of the bed.

“And why not?” Peter said, suddenly serious.

“You can’t be serious!” Stiles paused looking at him with an annoyed frown. “Sex is one thing, Peter, and don’t get me wrong, I’ve enjoyed the sex,” he stressed, as Peter wondered why he was using the past tense. “But _marriage_ is a whole other something and ridiculous to boot.” He turned away in a huff, dragging the shirt over his head, scars hidden as it slid down his back, and hunting for his underpants and trousers.

“Why is my proposing to you ridiculous?” Peter was more than a little miffed at Stiles’ ostensibly callous attitude.

“Why do you want to go and spoil things? This was fun, Peter, our fun.” _Again with the past tense,_ Peter thought, but Stiles rushed on. “No one else needs to get involved, or at least we could pretend no one knew you’re screwing the servant boy and it could continue until you got tired and needed new entertainment or until your sister laid down the law, and we both knew this. So let’s not pretend this was more than it was,” Stiles’ arms were now gesticulating frantically.

At his dismissal of their ‘relationship’, Peter sprung naked from the sheets, tossing the wrinkled things aside and grabbing onto one flailing arm. “You know we’re more than that. Don’t cheapen it like this.”

Stiles closed his eyes and sighed, “I have to get back before I’m missed and it gets Scott into trouble. He’s already done more than is wise.”

“Can we at least talk about this later?” Peter didn’t like the feeling of desperation that bracketed his emotions. _Was Stiles breaking up with him?_

“I don’t know there’s much else to say about this, Peter. Honestly, a marriage between us is impossible in every sense of the word and you know it. The only thing this is going to do is bring trouble – especially since you’re already promised . . . to Scott.”

“Scott’s not the one I want. I want you.”

“And therein lies our problem . . . I have to go.” He tugged his arm free, scrambled into the rest of his clothing and scanned the corridor before tossing over his shoulder, “Goodnight, Your Highness,” and disappeared behind a softly closing door, taking Peter’s heart with him.

**

Stiles eased another door closed, for the second time that night and started to tiptoe to his pallet.

“Where the fuck have you been,” the dark voice said from over to his left startling a squeak out of him.

He couldn’t help the tremble that came with it, but forced it down for calm as he turned to face Duke Rafael who was moving steadily closer with deliberate, threatening steps. “I, I . . . couldn’t sleep, my lord,” he said carefully, “and Isaac, the Queen’s servant asked for a hand with some of the duties for Her Majesty, to prepare for the ball . . . I volunteered fo. . .” A hard slap tossed him three feet away and had stars bursting behind his eyes.

“How foolish do you think I am, boy? I can smell him on you, you little whore.”

Stiles cowered as the Master kept coming forward. He felt a heavy boot connect to his ribs and in the next breath he was grabbed by the neck of his shirt and shaken before another slap stung his already smarting face. “You dare to make us the laughing stock of this place, whoring yourself out to the Prince like a piece of meat from the brothel?” The last word was delivered with spittle and a punch that clear knocked the wind from him and aggravated the damage already done to his ribs.

“Uncle! Stop,” Scott stood, disheveled from sleep but indignant. “Release him, now!”

“Watch your tone, Prince, or I will tell your mother what you’ve both been up to this past week. And that all her plans to join her kingdom with the Hales’ have gone to naught because your servant is bedding the man you are betrothed to. How do you think she’ll take that? Huh?! What do you think will happen when your engagement falls through?” Rafael’s voice was harsh and deadly.

Stiles was still gasping, trying to catch his breath. “I’m sorry,” a tear slipped down his face.

“Sorry?” Rafael tossed him to the ground, where he crashed onto his shoulder with a pained cry. “You filthy piece of trash! Sorry? You stay away from Prince Peter if you know what’s good for you,” he grated, eyes hard. “And you Prince,” he addressed Scott, “would do well to remember your place and your duty.” With the parting words he stalked back to his connecting bed chamber, slamming the door.

Scott rushed to his servant’s side, cringing when his attempts to pull him to his feet were met with a pained cry. “Shit, your shoulder may be dislocated. Let me get help.”

“No!” Stiles gasped out. “I can handle it.”

“Stiles, you’re bleeding, for God’s sake, and for all we know he could have punctured something vital.”

“Stop, Scott. You know it’ll only make him angrier.”

Scott clenched his teeth but said nothing more about seeking help. “Let me help you to bed and clean you up.” He bent once more to his servant and friend, torn but with his uncle’s words clanging guilty warnings in his ears.

**

Scott no more wanted to marry Prince Peter than the Prince wanted him for a husband. The fact of the matter was that the Hale Kingdom needed fresh blood and alliances, and the McCall Kingdom needed wealth but had plenty goodwill with the rulers around them. For all intents and purposes, it was quite a reasonable trade off – that was, unless you were Scott or Peter.

The two had met once before this occasion. Then they’d both been civil, but at the time, with his mother also in the visiting party, Scott had only concentrated on learning about the kingdom. His mother had wanted better to portray a certain standing in the Hales’ eyes, and Scott being her only son was expected to set a good impression. So Scott saw it as his duty to learn as much as he could, outside of that which Stiles had already filled his head.

He swore the boy had a penchant for retaining information that put even his own considerable efforts to shame. But then, just before they were due to travel, Stiles had suffered a sprained hand – one he swore he got falling out of a tree in the orange grove but Scott knew perfectly well that while Stiles was a klutz, that lack of coordination disappeared once his feet left the ground. It was Stiles who’d taught him how to climb trees, scale walls and even to perfect his fencing skills – on a tight rope, no less. The boy read everything he could get his hands on and figured out how to make what he read work in real life.

Scott had known then, just as he’d known with all the other bruises, breaks and sprains and lacerations that it was his uncle’s doing. He just could never figure why the Duke hated the boy so.

So Stiles had had to sit out that trip, but had been allowed to accompany Scott on this one, to aid him in any way he wished. It was his mother’s decree and the boys had rejoiced, until she’d mentioned that other duties prevented her departure until days later and instead his Uncle Rafael would be his escort to the kingdom. He’d watched the joy leech out of Stiles’ eyes when he’d told him, even if his friend continued to smile like the trip hadn’t just taken an unfortunate left turn into fucked up territory.

What none of them had accounted for was what would happen the first moment Prince Peter laid eyes on Scott’s most trusted servant and friend.

The caravans had taken longer than expected to arrive at the palace, and then his uncle had insisted Stiles help unpack the wagons. So the young man had been late and sweaty by the time he had shown up in to Scott’s rooms to help him dress for the evening’s dinner. Everything had been a rush, so it was no surprise that Scott forgot Queen Talia’s gift from his mother in his still packed trunks.

Not wanting to offend by making the return trip which would take another five minutes to get back to his rooms, Scott had begged Stiles to rush to fetch the package. On returning, his friend had realized they were still at the drinks portion of the evening and had asked one of the servers to alert the young prince that he was waiting just outside the doors for him.

As it turned out the reason drinks were still being served was because the Queen’s younger brother, sore that he was being “sold off like so much cattle” had purposely delayed his arrival in the Great Hall. Scott had come out, quickly retrieved the package and dismissed Stiles back to their rooms when the young servant had turned and promptly smacked into the royal.

What ordinarily would have been quite a gaff, turned into a moment of stunned silence as the Prince just stared at the young man he’d never met before. After humbly rushed apologies, accompanied by too much bowing and scraping on Stiles’ part, the Prince had insisted Prince Scott introduce them.

Scott had seen that look before. Seen it in the way his father had looked at his mother before his death. Seen it when cook looked at the servant girl and she blushed delicately, and now in Peter’s focused gaze. He’d known then it would only lead to trouble.

And when Stiles had looked up into those very blue blues, he’d felt his stomach tighten with a kind of anticipation and fear for feelings he should not entertain but could not help, especially in his best friend’s presence. His best friend who was very near engaged to this very man.

Over the next few days it seemed the Prince was determined to seek Stiles out, especially through Scott. Scott had thought they’d had his uncle fooled. The man had been preening at the fact that Peter was constantly seen in the company of Scott and it would seem that all was going according to plan, and Scott perpetuated the belief, allowing the Prince free answers to questions about his dear friend.

But now it seemed the ante was up, and Stiles would pay for it. In fact, they both would, as Scott was still set to marry the man he truly believed was in love with his best friend.

**

 _He should have walked away._ The very first time the Prince had sought him out, he should have walked away – but he didn’t. He’d entertained his questions and company, time and again, convincing himself that he could not refuse the questions of a royal – but knowing in his heart he was lying to himself.

He’d been intrigued.

Peter’s mind was sharp. As sharp as his own, and his wit, it was as dry as it was inadvertently charming and Stiles was charmed. He hadn’t meant to, but he was. And then there was the night he’d run into the Prince in the corridors of the West Wing.

Stiles sighed now, and it had less to do with his bruised ribs and more to do with his own self-recriminations. He should have known better. Should have walked away. Should have said no. Should have thought of his friend – first and last.

But he hadn’t.

When the Prince had crowded him up against the wall, cupped a hand around his cheek, he could admit now he’d already been leaning into his touch before the Prince had even laid a breath on him. Then those sensuous lips had claimed his and he’d been lost.

“Tell me to stop and I will. Tell me you don’t want this and I will leave you alone,” Peter had uttered softly against his lips.

“Peter, we shouldn’t,” he’d responded over a muddled brain.

“Just say the word, Stiles. Do you want me to stop?” the prince had asked.

And to his everlasting shame, Stiles had moaned, “No” and been damned.

**

Peter stood on his balcony and looked over his sister’s kingdom. A kingdom that was about to enter an alliance that would extend their influence and power – unless he screwed it up.

He hadn’t intended to fall in love with anyone, but the fact remained he’d been bored. The parties, the treaties, the entertaining dignitaries; he’d been sick of it all. And then after an evening spent arguing with his sister about his upcoming _betrothal_ , he’d left the palace in a piss and had ridden out into the woods for the evening, returning only when his servants began to get nervous and jittery. He would never take his tantrum so far that they’d be blamed for his tardiness, although his sister would know better.

So to calm them, he’d begun the ride back – to their quite audible sighs of relief – and allowed them to dress him for the first of three parties leading up to his official engagement to Prince Scott of the McCall Kingdom, that would take place when Queen Melissa arrived. He’d delayed as long as he could before leaving his rooms for this peacock show as he called it, determined to show Talia he was his own man, even if she did rule him.

Then he’d turned a corner and crashed into a pair of whiskey eyes with tantalizing moles and his life had tilted.

Peter would be hard pressed to say what the man had said to him in apology. All he recalled were limbs moving in flails and a glorious set of moles that his tongue salivated to trace with detailed accuracy. He’d demanded an introduction of Scott and had known, even then that he could not just walk away.

But now Stiles was wigging out, but reasonably so, about his surprising proposal. He’d actually surprised himself with it, and again to realize that he actually meant it. He truly wanted to claim the smart ass, quick tongued young man.

It was his family that would be the problem. His family, and his commitment to kingdom and duty.

**

He didn’t see Stiles again for three days. Every question to Scott was met by a shifty look, a cowered glance at his uncle, if the man was nearby, and a stammered excuse as to why the young man wasn’t by his side.

Stiles was always by his side or off in the stables. And he hadn’t been in either place for three days now. That was three days too long for Peter.

He was getting ready to call Scott on his bullshit when the young prince managed to get him alone and corner him with seething fury as he said in a whispered rush – “You’ve been careless. My uncle found out about you two.”

Peter had felt ice rush through his veins. “Is he alive?” Peter had seen the scars. The ones Stiles had tried to hide or lie about. How could he not? The problem was the young man couldn’t lie to him worth a damn. He’d seen him lie flawlessly to others, including the commander of the palace guard, with neither flinch nor tell, but with Peter he had tells a plenty.

“Yes, he’s alive. Do you think I’d allow him to be killed?”

“How bad was it?” he asked through clenched teeth.

“Bruised ribs and a couple other scrapes that will heal if he stays out of my uncle’s line of sight,” Scott bore no illusions that Peter would have guessed the reason for Stiles’ scars. “But that won’t happen if you continue to treat him like your personal concubine,” Scott said, anger in his voice.

“I beg your pardon?” Peter squinted at the daring.

“Look, I have no doubt you care for him, maybe even love him, but all the palace is aware that he’s sharing your bed, and I will not have him gossiped about as some gold digger. You’ve taken absolutely no care with him and it was foolish of him to allow it, knowing that ultimately he belongs to my uncle. It’s only because of the respect for my mother, who insisted he become my servant when we turned 9, that he hasn’t taken him back. But if you keep this up, take my warning, he will and neither of us will ever see him again.”

Peter nodded jerkily and swallowed. “Can I see him?”

Scott frowned. _Had the man not heard a word he’d said?_ “That would not be wise. If my uncle . . .”

“Please, Scott. I need to see for myself that he lives.”

Scott considered him for a long moment then sighed. “Tonight, when my mother arrives. My uncle and the Queen will go to meet her before the official announcement to iron out details. That will be the best time. I will try to buy you 20 minutes, but don’t make me regret it and make sure you show up to the meeting Peter, I mean it.”

Peter nodded again, and Scott stalked away, everything in his body language saying he was still angry at the Prince, and rightly so.

**

Peter chastised himself. He should have known better than to put Stiles before the line of fire like that. Scott was right, he’d been careless and insensitive, not even considering what their affair could mean for Stiles.

The young man had no family, no rights, no protection against any atrocities that might be visited upon him – except for Scott’s defense and care, and he, Prince Peter of Hale, had almost cocked it up. Despite his lofty standing, he could no more intervene in the treatment of Stiles than his own sister could. It was purely a private matter, and with the treaty not yet signed between the two kingdoms he could not afford to offend the Duke, regardless of the fact that he’d love to slit him open from navel to nose.

So he’d be careful from this point on. But he would not give Stiles up. _He couldn’t._

**

“What are you doing here,” Stiles stood still, speaking through gritted teeth. He turned angrily to Scott, “What’s he doing here?”

“You have 20 minutes. Make it count,” Scott said, sending quiet apology to Stiles with the puppy dog eyes, but leaving anyway with a close of the door.

Stiles’ fingers balled into fists. He slowly walked over to the chairs by the hearth and sat gingerly, favouring his left side. “You shouldn’t have come.”

“How could I not? How bad is it?”

Stiles spared him a sly side glance, “It’ll heal.”

“Not what I asked,” Peter said, moving toward him. But before he could get close, Stiles jumped out of the chair with a hiss of pain and a grimace, and edged closer to the hearth, stopping Peter in his tracks.

“I said I was fine. You shouldn’t have come.”

Peter was lost. He didn’t know what to do about any of this. “I’m so damn sorry, Stiles.”

“It’s not your fault. It takes two to tango, but this dance must now come to an end.”

“No, you can’t mean that,” he said, not realizing he had scooted forward toward the young man again, who eased back to put an armchair squarely between them.

“We both had our fun, Peter, but the Queen is here now. I can’t afford for anything to go wrong with your engagement. We can’t afford it.”

“What if I don’t want this particular engagement?”

Stiles’ face went red with anger. “Is everything a damn joke to you? It isn’t always about what you want, _Prince_ Peter,” he spat out the title scathingly. “You’ve had privilege your whole life, well not everyone’s life is like that. My life isn’t like that and I can’t afford your games. I don’t have the currency to play them. Now please go.”

The prince swallowed thickly. “Stiles . . .”

“No!” He straightened his spine, though it looked like the effort cost him, and finally did the one thing the Prince could not ignore. He bowed. “Goodbye Your Highness.”

Peter stood still and watched as the shutters came down on Stiles’ emotions and then stared at the top of that bowed brown hair. He wanted to yell, to scream, to shake some sense into him, but all any of that would do was bring him more pain.

With a final look at his beloved, he bowed goodnight and left. This was not the end of it. It couldn’t be, he vowed silently.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something was up with Peter. Something serious.
> 
> Her brother was an ass, and a first rate one at that, but she loved him nevertheless. He went out of his way to annoy her constantly; to test the bounds of her strength, wit, resolve and leadership. In some areas, she was willing to give an inch, in others not at all. Case in point, this engagement. He’d been a thorn in her side ever since she’d notified him, with more than a little hesitance about his role in the deal with the McCalls. He’d been all for it, until he realized he was the proverbial lamb about to head to the meat market.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promised to continue this and my last exam was today, so here goes.  
> Please pay attention to the tags. This will get very emotional, may be my darkest work yet, so I don't want to throw around the word trigger but take care of you first and foremost. Read the end if you see a tag and want to know if it will affect you.

Talia kept tossing anxious glances his way, as if expecting him to object to the concessions being hammered out for the contract for his marriage. He’d yet to open his lips beyond when he arrived with apologies to both Queens for his tardiness.

Scott too had shifted more than a couple frowns his way and he knew the lad wanted to rush from the room to check on his friend, given Peter’s cold countenance. He knew that Scott knew something had happened.

But he couldn’t be bothered with that now. His mind was in turmoil. He was in pain; such agony that he dared not allow it to show; besides, the Duke who sat beside his sister now held them both in his shrewd gaze, suspicion bleeding from his pores.

After another hour, the two women rose smiling and shaking hands over an agreement reached. Queen Melissa's husbands was no doubt somewhere on the outside probably enjoying a drink or in the rings with the training soldiers. It was well known that John, had once been a soldier himself. They’d married some ten years ago, after she’d properly mourned the death of her first husband, Scott’s father, for seven years.

When they had enough privacy, Scott sidled up to him whispering frantically, “What’s wrong? Something’s happened, hasn’t it?”

Scott only just refrained from wringing his hands in anxiety, but still it was not enough to move Peter. The older royal held onto his blank expression with effort as he responded, “Nothing, Your Highness. Everything is just fine,” which earned him another scowl from Scott.

“You’re a poor liar, _Your Royal Highness_ ,” he groused, which only reminded Peter of what an expert Stiles was at a fib, to anyone but him. That made this hurt all the more because when his beloved told him goodbye, there had been no waiver – absolutely none.

**

Stiles stared into the flames and could relate to their heat. His insides felt like they had been seared and roasted on a spit for hours.

By now the announcement of the engagement would have been made. By now Peter and Scott would be engaged, and that was . . . well, that was that. He knew once the wedding took place some months hence that there was no way the Duke would allow his continued service to Scott. He’d known from the time talk of the Hales came up and it was whispered that the Queen’s brother, whom they were hoping to pair Scott with, had a bit of a reputation. He like his men lively and entertaining – all the things Scott wasn’t.

Now don’t get Stiles wrong, he loved Scott like a brother; and because he knew him so well, he knew that Scott was an idealist. He held strict ideals and valued his duty above all else; right and wrong, he took his duties seriously. Which begged the question as to why he’d let this thing between Peter and Stiles run the course it did. He’d never offered an opinion and Stiles would never ask.

What he did know was that now Rafael was on to what was happening, Stiles was as good as gone. It remained to be seen if Rafael would herd him off to one of his lesser properties to serve there, or if, God forbid, he’d do the one thing Stiles dreaded and feared. . . Stiles sent up a silent prayer against being sold. But one thing was sure, the Duke would never allow Stiles to exist under the same roof as Peter, and it was already known that Peter would be moving to the McCall Kingdom, since Scott was the Queen’s sole heir.

There had been early talk of Scott sharing extended visits to Hale lands, to learn as much as he could about his husband’s interests there too. Once they were wed, the contracts would eventually be Scott’s business when he became king. And if Stiles knew Rafael, and he did all too well, the man would already be plotting his servant’s eventual outcome and he’d savour the fear just mere thoughts of the consequences of Stiles’ indiscretion would wrought.

He still didn’t understand why Rafael liked to torture him so, in any and every way he could. Stiles’ only saving grace was the man had no sexual interest in him. He thanked God for that small mercy.

Stiles hated his life. For one moment in time he’d allowed himself to get lost in something other than despair. But life was ugly for people like him – ugly and unfair; and if you were unlucky enough, or lucky enough – depending on one’s point of view – it was brutishly or blessedly short.

Stiles balled his hands again, blunt nails digging into his palms. It was time to stop living in the clouds and return to the iron-willed person he had to be to survive what was coming, because what was coming was sure to be pure hell. Rafael would see to that.

**

Talia’s gown swept the floor behind her, and with every turn she kicked the swaths of monstrous material out around her in annoyance. What wouldn’t she do for something lighter and definitely easier to carry? She’d shooed away her ladies-in-waiting when she’d started to feel that familiar itch beneath her skin – the one that said she was nearing the point where she would snap at some poor unfortunate soul and have to apologise later. If there was one thing she was not, it was a slave to the belief that one’s status meant that one was infallible. Too much had shown that thinking to be false and a sure path to draconian policies.

But all this was the least of her worries at the moment. Something was up with Peter. Something serious.

Her brother was an ass, and a first rate one at that, but she loved him nevertheless. He went out of his way to annoy her constantly; to test the bounds of her strength, wit, resolve and leadership. In some areas, she was willing to give an inch, in others not at all. Case in point, this engagement. He’d been a thorn in her side ever since she’d notified him, with more than a little hesitance about his role in the deal with the McCalls. He’d been all for it, until he realized _he_ was the proverbial lamb about to head to the meat market. She scoffed at her own pun now.

It was in that ‘discussion’, and she used the word loosely, that the real Peter showed up. The Peter that she’d butted heads with from the time he was one-and-a-half and could ask “why” and yell “no”, which was well before any other words beyond had entered his vocab. And it was with a hell of clash. He’d been argumentative and petulant. But never once during all their dealings had he been silent. So tonight was troubling.

And she just knew it had something to do with the servant boy. The one Peter had foolishly been bedding this past week-and-a-half. As if they did not have enough troubles with the Duke, Peter had gone and shown his absolute disdain for the man by taking to his bed the one thing that belonged to the Duke and there was certainly no love lost between her brother and Duke Rafael of McCall.

From the moment they had met, there’d been an instant dislike on both sides. One that neither thought nor tried to hide in the least. She’d tried her best to be the go-between, making sure they were never alone together; never sat beside each other, and that if she could she made sure there was at least half-a-castle between them unless they were in the presence of someone of equal rank.

At first she’d assumed the tryst was yet another show of Peter being his usual asshole-ish self and trying to get under the Duke’s skin. Within the last couple days she’d begun to worry though. She’d seen an increasing focus on the boy that was uncharacteristic of Peter. She’d been certain she would have to put her foot down before the McCall Regent arrived, but then Peter had disappeared for most of the day. And when he’d appeared tonight his eyes had bothered her. He hadn’t looked that despondent since the deaths of their parents. It was concerning.

He tried to hide it beneath his usual arrogance and bluff, but it had been as clear as a flashing neon sign to her and her stomach had churned at what could possibly have gone wrong to cause it.

Earlier in the day one of her ladies had whispered in her ear about the goings on in the McCall chambers. Rumours then around the castle’s underbelly, where servants gossiped like fish vendors at market, was that the Duke had laid into the boy in a most vicious manner and none had seen him for more than a day hence. And that Prince Scott had requested warm water and bandages, and when the pail had been returned there was blood in the water.

She knew she would have been told if the boy had died, so chances were he was still alive. She could only surmise that the affair had finally come to the Duke’s attention. The man held a disdain for the youth that she found most alarming. If she could have intervened she would have by now, but there was still too delicate an alliance to chance it on offense over the treatment of a servant, even if everything in her core boiled at the fact.

She paused her paces. She’d tried twice to engage Peter after the deal was made, sure he would launch into a scathing diatribe about the deal that had finally been struck to the satisfaction of both queens, even if the princes weren’t thrilled and spinning cartwheels. But he’d been sullen, detached and practical in a way that she hated to admit scared her just a bit.

Talia had instructed her ladies to keep an ear close to the other servants. She wanted to know when she could expect the other shoe to drop. Surely it would, wouldn’t it? There was no way Peter was accepting this without a fight, right? Or was there more to this relationship with the boy than she imagined. Certainly not?

She shivered to think what a “yes” to either question could possibly mean.

**

Scott was stalling.

To think after all this time her son still thought he could pull the wool over her eyes. She’d been in the castle for almost a day now and still had not laid an eye on Stiles, despite the fact that the two were virtually inseparable at times. Each time she asked after the servant she was told he was off on some errand for the Prince. _There weren’t that many errands her son needed done._ Of that she was certain.

Which left only one possibility and that possibility brought a heaviness to her heart that she wanted to not think about. The only possibility was that he was injured, _again_.

For as much as she was Queen and held leadership over her lands and peoples, all that fell moot before her brother’s greed and vindictiveness. Her reign had been a constant uphill battle since the death of their father. The only reason she was now Queen was that she’d beaten him into the world by a mere three minutes. She’d even heard when they were growing up that there was a literal argument among the doctors that tended their mother, as to whether the truth of the order of their births should have been switched. The only thing that stayed that eventuality had been their father. The king would not hear of it. So, Melissa was accepted as first born and would become the kingdom’s first queen – off-setting decades of patriarchy.

As the “elder” of the two she held the throne, but it was her brother that held the sway of the Royal Advisory Council – still a set of old men set in their ways. She was still considered by them as a “mere woman”, much to her annoyance, despite proving over the past eight years that she had what it took to lead, and furthermore that her reign was proving to be even more successful than her own father’s. It still counted for naught and her brother was still the one looked to for guidance.

It was for this reason that her hands were largely tied where Stiles was concerned. They still considered her too soft and every effort to restrain her brother was met with those dark looks of disapproval. One wrong step, she knew and they would happily sacrifice her on the altar of her brother’s ability to rule with a firmer and more deadly hand than she did. Melissa preferred discussion, negotiation, to brute strength and war. Her brother was the complete opposite, and yet held the endorsement of the country’s leaders – the warmongering bastards.

She was Queen, but she held no delusions about who really held power in her court. So she guarded her son, and her back, and warned Scott to do the same. It was why she needed this alliance to strengthen her own position. The one thing the Council could not deny was the evidence of Queen Talia’s successful rule, and this would put her feet solidly on the path she was plotting to finally be rid of those who held her skirts with tight fists. If this worked, she’d be able to rid the kingdom of her brother’s influence and dark whispers, and finally free her dear friend’s son from his clutches.

Shame swarmed around her at what Claudia would think if she could see her boy now, like this. She knew exactly why her brother hated the boy. She had so much to answer for; so much.

But she straightened her spine and curled her fists – all in time. This show was not over. While she could do no more than watch as the son of her former friend and servant, was treated like garbage beneath her brother’s boot and at his cruel hands, some day she knew would surely be able to change that, if the boy lived that long.

She just prayed she would not be too late.

**

Stiles grimaced as he clutched his side. His ribs were still tender, but at least he was out and about today and able to do some of his assigned chores. If he stayed in bed another day, he was certain the Queen would begin asking questions. Judging by the looks she leveled in his direction at times, he had his suspicions that she was aware of some of what her brother was capable of, though he dared not even think to ask why she hadn’t intervened. He was smart enough to observe the politics at the McCall Kingdom. He knew who really held the reigns.

There was a thriving network of gossip there among servants that he knew must find its way back to the Queen at times. Her ladies were nothing if not loyal.

So this morning, despite the protesting ribs and the warnings of his best friend to go easy, he’d dragged himself out of bed and prepared the Prince’s wardrobe for the day; seen to his breakfast and was now determined to see to the horses, at the very least. He’d been told the princes were supposed to go on a ride through the countryside today, to further solidify for the masses that this engagement was indeed proceeding as planned.

Stiles just hoped he’d be able to get out of the way of both royals before they descended on the stables. Once he prepared the horse, one of the other servants would most likely see to the prince’s seating and escort him on this ride. He was going to do as ordered and stay away from Peter . . . Prince Peter. It was in his best interest to do so.

Just then the hairs on the back of his neck began to prickle. Someone was watching him and he was a little reluctant to turn, in case it was the Duke. He’d had a habit in the past of sneaking up on Stiles to “ensure you are doing your service, boy”. Stiles had always thought it was that the man enjoyed scaring the hell out of him and seemed to derive some kind of perverse pleasure from it.

And sometimes the way the Duke looked at him made him shiver. In fact, he’d just as soon not even think of it now, except he could feel the weight of eyes square in the centre of his back just then.

“I don’t see what all the fuss is about,” a voice said disdainfully. Stiles merely turned his head at the unknown man. “Maybe the fuss is when he gets between your legs and twists them above his shoulders. Or maybe he just claims you from behind like the bitch you are,” the man laughed, scorn ripe in his voice along with more than a little salacious suggestiveness.

Stiles swallowed. If the garb was anything to go by, this man was one of the upper class; probably titled as well. _Could he not catch a break in this place from titled men?_

“Maybe that’s where I should be as well. Maybe you’re looking for someone to replace the prince between your thighs. I hear he’s quite finished with you and his bed has been empty the past few nights.”

Stiles closed his eyes and exhaled softly, trying not to panic. There was no way he could fight off a man with such girth as this one possessed, and besides, was he even allowed to put up a fight. It was clear the servants, or someone had been talking, how else would anyone know he’d not been to Peter’s bed. He gave up any hope that the rumours of his place between the Prince’s sheets were not fodder for palace discussion. He’d done this to himself, carelessly and stupidly.

“Are you hearing me, boy,” the man spat now, voice closer than before.

Stiles tried not to tremble, glancing around surreptitiously out of the corners of his eyes; praying there was someone else, anyone within sight or hearing of this conversation. Not that this would deter a “gentleman” if the neighbouring individual was a mere servant, chances are the servant would quickly and quietly clear the area once he or she knew what was happening.

A heavy hand grasped his shoulder and spun him around. The foul odor from the man’s ample size almost caused him to gasp, but he dared not offend. So he tried to breathe through his mouth, though that did little good as the scent of the perfumes he had used in an attempt to disguise the smell wafted down Stiles’ throat. Stiles held in the gasp of pain when the man aggravated his injuries. _Just keep your wits_ , he told himself. _Stall if you can, and prepare to bear it if you can’t._

Suddenly he wished he had not been wishing earlier that the princes not arrive whilst he was there. Seems he could use a little saving at the moment.

**

Peter was boiling. He’d overheard two girls talking about his supposed dismissal of the servant boy from his bed and for the first time considered what it really meant for him to have taken such an interest in Stiles. He’d made him fodder for the gossips.

The only satisfaction was in both girls’ pale faces when they realized Peter was there and had overheard their malicious words. Both had gone scampering with their tails between their legs, but even that did not assuage his anger.

So his steps on the way to the stables were long, angry and distracted. Perhaps that’s why when his eyes landed on the scene before him his brain took more than a moment to process what he was seeing.

Stiles was on his knees, face bloodied, one eye almost swollen shut and his mouth was . . . Peter’s brain refused to process what his mouth was doing. But his remaining eye went wide and a tear rolled down his cheek as Peter rushed forward to drag the man off of him.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” he yelled, horror evident in his voice. His rage finally meeting the resistance it needed to be released.

“Hey!” the man shouted and it was then Peter looked, really looked, at the face of Stiles’ attacker.

“Lord Argent?”

“You’d better have a good explanation for this intrusion, boy,” the pudgy, repulsive snake of a man hissed at him.

Peter wanted to roar, wanted to tear, wanted to scream his anger and outrage, but the Argents were the Hales’ strongest allies. Something like a heavy rock settled in his stomach as he considered the possible consequences here. Then he heard Stiles gasp a breath and moan like he’d only now been able to breathe to save his own life, and Peter could think no more.

When the haze cleared, there were servants and nobles alike restraining him; his hands were bloodied and the look in his sister’s eyes was one of sheer horror at whatever it was he’d done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter speaks of violence to Stiles and a sexual attack on him. It does not go into very graphic details of said attack, but there is a detailed build up to it and descriptions of him during it. The end is not a resolution of the scene, but I will try not to be too far behind with the next chapter.  
> Feedback is very welcomed.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dealing with the aftermath of Stiles’ attack and Peter’s reaction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Took me a while to get back to this. I think I needed to prepare myself to write this. It’s not a long update.
> 
> WARNINGS for heavy angst and hurt.

Stiles came to lying on a pallet. Everywhere hurt. Hell, even his scalp felt like it was on fire and he could barely see out of one eye. A slight shift told him his scalp and eye were the least of his worries and an unwelcomed gasp of pain echoed in what seemed to be an empty room. Where the hell was he anyway?

It was then that he realised why he’d awoken. There was a commotion outside whatever this room was, because it sure wasn't his keepers’ quarters. It sounded like Scott yelling. But why would Scott be yelling, his brain sluggishly mused.

Soon enough pieces and parts started floating back into his pained awareness. The first was the man in the expensive red and gold tunic. The man who'd hurt him. The man who'd made him . . . until . . . until Peter!

Stiles made a jolt to get up but his injuries rebelled and black spots danced before his eyes as the din outside rose and yes, that was definitely Scott yelling, demanding to be let in. Let in? It made no sense. Scott was demanding to see . . . him! _But where was Peter_?

That's when the fear started to settle in.

“I demand to see him now, so call someone if you need to but I swear by all that is holy that …,” and whatever it was Scott was screaming at whichever hapless individual that was currently standing in his way, Stiles did not hear because his head began to spin and a high whining sound had him trying to clamp his hands to his ears.

_Oh God, Peter!_

Stiles started to hyperventilate, heart thudding in his chest as he tried to catch his breath. _God what had he done?_ Guilt ate at his insides. The last thing he remembered before he lost consciousness was Peter hauling the man off of him. He remembered falling back when the blackness that started to converge on him from his inability to breathe around the man’s . . . member, suddenly started to ease with the return of oxygen. But it had not been enough and he’d felt so weak, and his limbs refused to respond, he could do nothing but let the darkness finally claim him as a roar of fury ripped through the stables.

 _Where was Peter? Had the man finally given up on him?_ It’s not like he could blame him with everyone obviously now thinking he was a whore. _Why would a prince want a whore like him anyway?_

Stiles choked back a sob and a tear slipped down his cheek seconds before the single door to his cell creaked open and Scott rushed in.

**

Talia could not stop wringing her hands. How the hell had it come to this? Lord Argent was baying for blood, enraged and embarrassed about how Peter had nearly beat him to a bloody pulp over the servant boy . . . _a servant_. _What had Peter been thinking, to put them in this position?_

She was preparing for a meeting now with Queen Melissa and her brother, the Duke, Stiles’ official owner, and Argent who’d demanded an audience. Peter was huddled in the corner, almost catatonic after his rage had expired. It had taken four people to restrain him and even then it was only her shouting literally in his face that had cleared the look of insanity from his eyes. He’d gone instantly pale as he took in his own ruined clothes, raw hands and the state of Argent’s face.

Talia had issued immediate orders to fetch physicians to tend to both men.

Despite his condition, Argent had left screaming for justice, claiming the “whore tried to seduce him” and calling for the prince to be locked up for his assault on a fellow noble. This was one situation where Talia was not sure diplomacy would work.

“Your Highness, your guests are here,” a voice drew her attention.

Peter slowly turned his head, closed his eyes and rose to his feet. The queasy feeling in her stomach eased a bit but would not dissipate until this mess was all over. His face was as despondent as it had been since they’d brought him up and had him seen by the family physician, Dr. Deaton. His eyes as he glanced at his sister were filled with apology.

Talia swallowed and returned his look of concern before straightening her spine to face the music.

**

“Stiles!” Scott rushed forward to kneel beside him and Stiles fought back the tears. “Oh Stiles, I’m so sorry. So very sorry. I should have been there. What did that bastard do to you? I could kill him.”

The look in Scott’s eyes was one Stiles had never seen before – it was worry mixed with anger, mixed with regret, mixed with . . . guilt? But Stiles was too confused, in too much pain, too ashamed to even parse his best friend’s response. All he could think was, “Where’s Peter?”

And Scott’s face flamed even redder than it already was and he cleared his throat anxiously. His forehead scrunched and his face showed a moment of distaste. “I’m not sure. They . . . um . . . they took him away after what happened. I’m . . .,” Scott visibly swallowed, “I’m not sure what the consequences will be for what he did to Lord Argent. The man is literally demanding his head.”

Scott looked ready to cry now. “I’m so sorry, Stiles. I should have been there, but uncle was being a pain about what I’d chosen to wear and insisted I change. So it took longer without you there and I didn’t know what was happening . . .” he just shrugged helplessly.

Stiles’ head fell. “What’s he gonna do with me?” he uttered softly.

It was a question Scott could equally not answer.

**

Lord Gerard Argent blustered into the room, face having been cleansed but still red and raw and very angry looking. The bruising was already purpling and the way he looked at Peter made Talia cringe but she refused to show her discomfort, especially not in his presence.

“Queen Melissa, Duke Raphael, Lord Argent, please come in.” She turned to one of the ladies lingering on the edge of the room. “Some tea for everyone please.”

“Forget the tea. Get me a real drink,” Argent demanded.

Talia nodded and the woman hurried from the room. At her second nod, the waiting footmen filed out of the room and another silent man slipped in before the door was closed.

“Let’s sit.” Talia ushered her guests to chairs. “I’m sure you all know my solicitor. I’ve asked Mr. Finstock to join us and take note of any official statements agreed upon for obvious reasons. I’d first like to begin by asking for a recount of the circumstances that led to this unfortunate incident.”

“The circumstances!? I’d think you’d begin by telling us how your brother will be punished for his attack on my person,” Argent yelled, spittle flying from his lips. “My damn face is a tragedy and I demand restitution!”

Talia’s eyes narrowed. “You demand . . .” she said slowly and carefully, voice flat. But she saw red flush up the nobleman’s neck as he realized what he’d said.

“He assaulted Stiles,” Peter said quietly, causing Talia’s head to swing quickly in his direction. It was the first words he’d uttered since. “He beat him nearly to a pulp and was forcing him to . . .” Her brother couldn’t finish.

Melissa unconsciously uttered a distressed noise.

“I was simply giving the whore what he wanted. Are we really here about a _servant_?” The last word came out scornfully and scathing. “A _servant_ , who belongs to the McCalls and serves the Queen’s son? A _servant,_ one we all know has been sharing your brother’s bed for weeks? A brother who is promised to the son of the said Queen of the McCalls, and whose servant your brother has been bedding and you wonder why I call him a whore.”

Peter’s fist balled in ire and he grit his teeth. When Talia would have interrupted, Argent turned to her to hammer his point in. “Is this the kind of kingdom you’re both running?”

Talia straightened, looking the man straight in the eye. “I would caution you to remember you are in the presence of two rulers and a prince, Lord Argent. You might want to tread a bit carefully on those accusations. And furthermore, the servant in this encounter is, as you’ve pointed out, from the McCall Kingdom and I’m sure _Queen_ Mellissa would like to have a word here.”

“Before my sister speaks, I’d like to say how regretful it is that we have to meet on a matter such as this and it could mar what was otherwise a beautiful engagement announcement joining our two kingdoms. As the one with the ownership of said servant, I can promise the servant will be dealt with accordingly and I’m sure Lord Argent will agree the last thing any of us wants is for this occasion to be marked with more scandal than is necessary.”

Mellissa went still at the pledge that Stiles would be “dealt with”. She knew her brother and feared the weight of those words.

Talia’s eyes shifted to her briefly before returning to Rafael. “What did you have in mind?”

“Rafael . . .” Mellissa finally cautioned.

“It’s ok, sister. I’m sure you’ll agree that it would be best if Stiles was returned into my care.  As a show of unity to the kingdom, which is now rife with the gossip this incident has wrought, and to stem any further spread of this matter, maybe it would be best if we could move the wedding up to a fortnight and see our princes firmly committed and our kingdoms joined forthwith. I will settle the matter of Stiles, as you’re aware he is my servant and he will be dispatched forth-haste to my property in Adelle, out of the way, if you will, and I will speak to Lord Argent about any restitution for his troubles.”

“Restitutions for his troubles? He all but raped . . .”

“Peter,” Talia hissed. And she and her brother engaged in a heated staring standoff. Peter was the first to look away, deep pain flashing in his eyes before he turned his head away from the party, tears pooling behind his closed lids that still swam with images of Stiles’ attack.

“Well, if that’s all, I believe we have a wedding to plan, unless the prince has objections to the joining of our kingdoms, in which case I will have to question the commitment to the deal already signed.”

“No one is backing out of the deal,” Talia said between clenched teeth. “I will begin to make preparations. Two weeks does not give us as much time for guests to travel . . . Perhaps, I would also urge that Stiles be allowed to recover before he has to journey to Adelle which is a considerable ways from away.”

Rafael plastered a frightening smirk on his face. “I assure you will have nothing to worry about, Your Highness. _I_ will deal with _my servant_ as I see fit, but I thank you for your concern.”

“What about what he did?” Argent barked, not to be left out.

Rafael smiled predatorily. “When we speak Lord Argent, I am confident what I have in mind will assuage any concerns you might have about recompense for your misfortunes.”

The two men met eyes and suddenly Argent began to grin, only to grimace moments later as it pulled on his split lip. “I look forward to doing business with you, Duke. I believe we can come to a satisfactory arrangement.”

Those words sent a chill through Mellissa, but her hands were tied. Too much was at stake for her to challenge her brother’s claim outright.

“No . . . please,” Peter moaned, eyes clenched shut, heart pounding its ways out of his chest.

“I think we’re done here, sister,” Rafael said standing.

Mellissa felt aged as he helped her to her feet. A glance at his face revealed the dark pleasure he was taking in what he was about to set into motion. She felt ill.

One Queen stared helplessly at the other for moments before the party left; Talia on her feet just watched them go, body taunt with a feeling of impotence to stop what was about to happen.

“Thank you, Finstock, that will be all,” she said from a suddenly dry throat.

“Of course, Your Highness. I’ll have the documents to you by the end of the day.”

She nodded and the man excused himself. She walked to her brother’s side, reached out to comfort but Peter snarled and pulled away. She stepped back in alarm.

“Don’t you dare!” he warned her.

“I had no choice, Peter. We can’t afford a fight with Gerard over this. Whether we like it or not, Stiles is a servant, and not even one of our own. It would throw this kingdom into disarray, especially given your relationship with the boy _and_ betrothal to Prince Scott.”

“You know what he’s planning.” A tear rolled down Peter’s cheek.

“I’m sorry.” Talia’s shook her head and felt her throat constrict. “I’m so sorry.”

**

“That’s enough,” Rafael said from the doorway.

Scott turned, ready to confront his uncle, but stopped when two guards entered behind him. The McCalls did not argue in public.

“What’s happening?” Scott asked, as the two men moved to gather Stiles from the pallet. “Where are you taking him?”

When his uncle refused to answer, Scott moved to intervene. “I demand to know where you’re taking him!”

“Stay out of this, Scott. Besides, you have a wedding to go prepare for.”

Scott paled. “What?”

“Your wedding is to be in a fortnight. I believe you need to go speak with your fiancé to get things settled, and soon.”

Scott was stunned. “A fortnight. The wedding is not for months.”

“Not anymore.” Rafael finally looked at his nephew as Stiles moaned his distress – the men finally having lifted him from the pallet. “I warned you there would be consequences to what you allowed to happen. This treaty is too important to be circumvented by this unfortunate incident. Stiles will be handled for his provocation of a noble in this matter.”

“ _His_ provocation?” Scott stepped nearer to hiss quietly, “He was the victim here.”

“Lower your voice with that folly. He’s a servant, and it’s time he is reminded of his place. Take him away.”

“Is he being sent home? What are you planning to do?”

Stiles moaned as the men hustled him down the stairs, his feet barely brushing the stone beneath them. Rafael was mum as Scott continued to pester him with questions. As the steps opened out into the courtyard, a carriage sat waiting a matter of steps away.

“This is not our carriage,” Scott muttered.

Then the doors swung open to reveal a slit-eyed Gerard Argent, sitting in the passenger seat.

And Scott broke. “Please uncle, please. Don’t do this. I’ll do anything, but please don’t do this.” The first tears rolled down his face when Stiles uttered a sound like a wounded animal and began to fight.

“Uncle . . .no,” Scott rushed forward to fight with him. He knew his friend had to be hurting himself with the numerous injuries he already had, yet he was fighting them tooth and nail, scratching and biting at the men restraining him.

“Touch him and I promise you would have sealed a worse fate for him,” Rafael said in a deadly voice. “Make a scene and the worst you can imagine will be a picnic compared to what I will do and have done to him. This is finished.”

Scott skidded to a stop, mouth open and wheezing in despair. Grief balled in his stomach, “Please, uncle, _please_ ,” he begged as Stiles screamed for him. His throat burned and the tears came freely.

The door of the carriage closed on Stiles’ cries as a huge man sitting next to the nobleman restrained Lord Argent’s newest pet.

With a thump on the roof from inside, the carriage pulled away as Scott collapsed to his knees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I have good news. I’m travelling to the Hale Castle in four days. It seems the Queen’s heir has given birth to a baby girl and there is to be a celebration. I think I’ll take you with me as well. The celebrations are three days long and I’ll need attention during that time. Somehow I don’t believe the village whores will do as good a job as you.”
> 
> He glanced down at the brown hair and the downcast face bowed by his knees. There was no expression whatsoever at the news, just the way he liked it.
> 
> “I even believe there’s a good chance Princes Scott and Peter will be in residence for the occasion. It’ll be quite the reunion.” Gerard watched carefully for any ripple of emotion, eyes peeled for a clenched jaw, a blink, a swallow . . .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two updates . . . I surprise even me.
> 
> I thought long and hard about whether I should take you on a complete journey of Stiles’ first days with Gerard, but I think the last update and the first few paragraphs here are explicit enough in that regard; but there will be a lot of inferences to what has occurred over the years as we go on.  
> WARNING for Gerard’s cruelty.

He was still screaming and struggling, even bundled as he was on the floor of the carriage when it lurched forward and began rolling away from the Hale Castle. No this couldn’t be happening. Maybe he was dreaming . . . until . . .

“Shut the bitch up, will you?”

And the swift cuff against the side of his head rattled his teeth and sent his vision swimming. The force behind the blow so stunned him that for a moment it was like his soul had literally risen from his body, above the pain of the attack. But then, just as swift, agony crashed into his awareness knocking what little air he had left from his lungs, followed by a hard kick from a stiff boot to his ribs.

He gasped and for a moment thought his lungs had ruptured. Every sound out of him over the next what felt like hours (but was actually only 20 minutes), was dealt with by more pain. When the whimpers and wheezing for breath tapered off the nobleman leaned forward and the look he saw in those eyes brought fresh tears.

Stiles’ bladder finally went loose and he felt warmth gush beneath him as fear like he’d never known blossomed behind his surely by now cracked ribs.

“We’ve got a whole day towards my properties and by the time we get there you will have learnt a few lessons about what I will and will not tolerate from my pets. Lesson number one – you will not utter another sound in this carriage unless given permission to do so. And now I think it’s time for lesson number two . . .”

**

**Four years later**

“Pet!” Gerard called, and within moments the young man appeared. The older man smiled. It always brought him such pleasure how quickly his calls were answered now. It’d been a long, _hard_ road to get here, but get here they did.

He glanced at the angelic face, perhaps the only place that was not marred by hideous scars. “You called, Master,” Stiles said, voice gravelly, as if he had trouble speaking. His eyes and head eternally downcast.

“Down,” he ordered, and watched in delight as his pet fell instantly to his knees before him.

He turned back to the note in front of him, smiling as he reviewed the contents. It was a note from a business associate with whom he’d wished to meet. The man had sent his apologies, informing that he would instead be attending the christening and introduction of the newest princess to the Hale Kingdom on said proposed date.

What started as boiling anger at his obvious exclusion from the occasion, as he’d similarly been excluded from every event over the last four years, ended up as a challenge. It was a challenge to which he would happily respond, and in a way none of them would ever expect. This was going to be fun, so much fun.

“I have good news. I’m travelling to the Hale Castle in four days. It seems the Queen’s heir has given birth to a baby girl and there is to be a celebration. I think I’ll take you with me as well. The celebrations are three days long and I’ll need attention during that time. Somehow I don’t believe the village whores will do as good a job as you.”

He glanced down at the brown hair and the downcast face bowed by his knees. There was no expression whatsoever at the news, just the way he liked it.

“I even believe there’s a good chance Princes Scott and Peter will be in residence for the occasion. It’ll be quite the reunion.” Gerard watched carefully for any ripple of emotion, eyes peeled for a clenched jaw, a blink, a swallow. Satisfied when none came, that the face was just as blank as it should be, he continued, “Maybe you’d like to see your old friends,” and chuckled. “I’ll consider it. Now get up and go begin selecting what we should pack.”

Now that, that got a response, a deep swallow this time, and the eyes that had been focused downward rose briefly before falling again – the customary indication that he had something to say. “Speak,” he ordered.

“Will you be hunting on this trip, Master?”

Gerard smiled. “Yes,” he said pleased, thinking, “That is an excellent idea. I think we should go hunting there. Pack accordingly. You’re released.”

The young man got quickly to his feet and made to hurry away. “Pet.” Stiles stopped just as quickly, turning wary eyes on him but quickly casting them down to the floor where they belonged.

“Yes, Master.”

“Pack smartly,” he warned, and watched his pet’s head bob quickly and nervously in understanding of the associated consequences. “Good. Go now,” he smiled benevolently at his pet’s retreating form.

**

Finstock bowed as he entered his employer’s chambers. It was from that chair, behind the massive desk that was now covered in papers, that she ruled this kingdom.

“Good morning, Mr. Finstock,” she said cordially, head raising for but a moment to acknowledge him.

He’d asked her time and again to call him Bob, and he smiled now at the familiar, stubborn formal greeting.

“Your Highness,” he returned.

“What do you have for me this morning?” She smile faintly.

“Lord Gerard Argent is coming to the christening.” He watched, as expectedly her hand faltered. “Chris Argent sent word this morning that there’s murmuring among Lord Gerard’s servants and it seems to point at plans of surprising us by attending the events.”

Her hand shook as her head snapped up. She dropped the implement she was writing with and sat back in the chair. “He wasn’t invited,” the whisper came in a rush.

“No, he wasn’t. But he’s coming nonetheless and according to the standing treaty we have with the Argents, he cannot be refused. If it’s any consolation, Chris says he’ll try to keep him in line.”

“That’s hogwash and you know it. Gerard won’t do anything Gerard doesn’t want to.”

“Yes, and his intention it would seem is to test the bounds of your hospitality by bringing . . . a certain servant with him.”

She blanched and her breath stuttered, “He wouldn’t . . .”

“We both know he would. And he is. We haven’t received an official word from him, but I think that’s his plan.”

Talia wanted to smash something. She uttered a painful sound as she rose, restless and unable to sit, and began pacing at the windows overlooking the bustling courtyard. “We’ll have to provide chambers, won’t we?” Talia felt a physical pain grip her chest. “Peter will lose his mind if he hears this.”

“We could decree where the guests and servants are allowed. Lessen the chance of them running into each other ahead of the actual events and dictate all servants to specific quarters,” Finstock suggested.

“Won’t work. Besides, the moment Scott receives word he’s here . . .,” she exhaled.

“What would you like me to do?”

She turned to look at him, a look of despair on her face for a moment before she schooled her emotions. “There’s nothing we can do but manage this. I’ll have the seating arranged to put as little contact between the family and the Argents as possible, unfortunately for Chris. Will you have someone fetch Lady Lydia, and Laura and Jordan?”

“Right away.”

She’d been dealing almost exclusively with Chris on behalf of the Argent family in recent years. Surprisingly Gerard hadn’t challenged the new status quo in that time, but it would now seem like his good grace had run out and he was not allowing the Hales to snub him any longer. _Blast him to hell!_

In a matter of minutes the family’s beautiful, red-headed events planner was standing before her with a file of documents. “You called, Your Highness.”

Seconds later Laura and her husband came in. Laura smiled as she saw Lydia. The two greeted each other like the friends they were and Jordan brushed a formal kiss to Lydia’s knuckles.

“What’s going on mom?” Laura asked.

“Gerard Argent is coming.”

Laura inhaled sharply and reached out for Jordan’s hand.

Lydia frowned. “He’s not on the list. I made sure . . .”

“No one’s blaming you, Lady Lydia. We know he would not have been invited,” Finstock spoke up.

“He invited himself?” she asked, visibly upset glancing between the Queen, heir and solicitor.

“That’s not all. We think he’s bringing Stiles with him.”

Lydia blushed and sputtered. No words came.

Jordan’s eyes widened and Laura gasped again. “Is he mad? Peter and Scott are sure to be attending!” she asked flabbergasted and very aware of the disaster than now lay before them.

“Of course, he is. That’s why he’s doing it,” Jordan rejoined. “Damn that man, hasn’t he already tortured them enough. And what could he possibly gain for doing that to his own servant?” As he asked the question, he already knew the answer – because Lord Gerard Argent was just that cruel.

Laura’s stomach roiled at the thought of the young servant she and Jordan never had the chance to meet, but about whom they’d heard more than plenty.

The heir and her new husband had been on honeymoon when the whole thing had gone down. After the notification was sent, they had rushed back, arriving home little more than a week before the hastily arranged wedding. The memory of her uncle’s empty eyes still haunted her to this day.

She’d seen him seldom since and when she did, gone was the snarky and sarcastic man she remembered. In his place, a serious and often abrupt man whose patience was thin and emotions quick fire at best. The only smiles he gave were for his great nephew, Derek (now two years old). Derek was Laura’s first child – named after her late brother who’d died too young.

Her second child, Cora, had been born just two weeks ago. Peter had yet to see her and now the event was going to be ruined by the man who seemed determined to bring Peter nothing but misery.

Jordan turned to Lydia, who’d sat heavily on the nearest chair. “What can we do?”

Lydia placed her documents on the tea table in the centre of the room, mind whirling as she tried to find a solution. “We’ll definitely need to rearrange the dining hall. We can have a table just for family instead of having the family spread out amongst the most important guests as we were intending. I’m assuming none of the family will want to sit with the Argents now . . .”

“Not with that man at the table, certainly not!” Laura blustered, suddenly very angry.

“Of course, that makes it difficult because the immediate family isn’t exactly small and it will mean positioning the head table setting so there’s a clear view of all guests, which in turn won’t exactly put the Argents out of Peter’s view.”

Looking closely at Talia’s face, Lydia made a decision. “I’ll make it work. I’ll also have to rethink the hunt, the chase and the garden party, but I promise it will be as drama free a week as we can physically make it.” She turned to the couple. “Your baby’s christening celebrations and introduction to society will be perfect.”

They all knew that last statement was too far out of their control now.

“Just do your best. If he wants to stir up trouble there’s little we can do about it short of barring him at the gates, which in itself is trouble we don’t need,” Laura said, and Talia smiled warily, nevertheless pleased that the heir to the throne was exercising hard-taught diplomacy, especially given the delicacy of the occasion and what it meant to her personally.

Lydia nodded in understanding.

Finstock passed her a list. “These are the ones who’ve confirmed through my office in addition to what has probably already gone through you.”

“Thank you, Mr. Finstock. Queen Melissa sent her apologies and said Scott would represent her,” Lydia looked to Talia. “This now looks like almost everyone we invited, well, everyone plus . . .” She didn’t finish.

As she left the room frowning, Mr. Finstock turned to the royals. “We have to warn him. Warn them both.”

Talia sighed. “I know.”

“Could we maybe not tell Uncle Peter until after he arrives,” Laura’s voice shook.

“I can’t . . . I won’t do that to him after everything else I’ve done,” Talia said, wary.

“Mom, you have to stop blaming yourself. There was nothing you could have done for Stiles.”

Water pooled in Talia’s eyes. She simply shook her head in regret. She’d lost her brother, the man he’d been, the day they took Stiles away.

“He may not come,” Laura said in despair.

Talia dragged her into a tight embrace. “That’s a risk I’m willing to take,” she pulled back to look at her daughter, “but I’m not willing to keep it from him. It’s taken him a while to even begin speaking to me again,” her voice broke. “I won’t risk our family like that. Never again. It’s his right to determine if he can attend in light of this development.”

Jordan stood still, arms folded across his chest as he considered other ramifications. “Scott won’t stay away. Not once he hears Stiles may be here. And we all know how that’s going to go with Peter and all those unresolved issues between them. Why can’t that man just die?”

Talia sighed heavily. Peter and Scott should not have to cope with this. Not after everything they’d already been through. She also shuddered to think what the last four years would have been like for Stiles in the clutches of Gerard. As the thought surfaced, she felt a claustrophobic heat sweep through her body. She swung away back to the window in an attempt to catch her breath.

Jordan frowned, worried.

Unaware, Laura sank into the chair Lydia had vacated.

There were still whispers in the castle about the rift between her mother and uncle. Their relationship had never been the same, and not especially once word had reached Peter about Duke Rafael’s arrangement with Gerard. Scott had been near inconsolable; Peter’d been catatonic for days. They’d all thought the wedding would have had to be called off. But two days before the nuptials, Scott had gone to Peter. When the two emerged after more than two hours, Peter was showing more life than he’d done before, although the two never disclosed what was discussed.

It was obvious it wasn’t a marriage based on love or affection, but in the past four years it slowly seemed to be one based on a deep understanding of each other. The family tried, where possible, to never speak Stiles’ name and the Duke was never allowed in Peter’s presence except where an entire room separated them and only if Queen Melissa insisted the Duke accompany her on visits. In recent years as well, Laura knew the McCall Queen had made herself scarce to avoid such confrontations.

The first time the Duke had walked into a room Peter had been in after the incident and tried to greet the Prince, to everyone’s absolute embarrassment, Peter had stood and walked out with not a word or glance to anyone. Since then, there had never been a word spoken between them.

“Your Highness,” Finstock said suddenly, rousing Laura from her reminiscing. He and Jordan rushed to the Queen’s side.

“Mom?” Laura jumped up, running to her mother as the men eased her into her chair behind the desk.

“Liam!” Laura called her mother’s most trusted guard. The man was through the door immediately. “Fetch Doc Deaton.”

“Laura, don’t fret. I’m ok. Just a dizzy spell,” Talia tried to catch her breath again.

“The doctor, now, Liam.” Jordan ordered, and the man rushed off.

It didn’t take long before Deaton was kneeling before her taking her vitals, talking quietly about the cause of the “attack”.

“I tell you I’m fine,” Talia brushed off.

“You’re not fine. You are stressed. Your heartrate is still elevated. I think what you may have had were palpitations. They’re stress and fear related and given what the Princess has told me about your previous discussions I can certainly understand the cause. I need you to relax now. No more work for the remainder of the day. Just rest.”

“I’ve too much to do to sit around with my feet up, Alan.”

“That may be, but the alternative is forced bed rest for the remainder of the week. Take your choice.”

She scowled at him. “Fine. I’ll retire for the day.”

He smiled and turned to Jordan. “Please see that she does.”

“Of course, Dr. Deaton. I’ll send for you if there are any problems.”

Leaving a small bottle of laudanum to help with sleep, with clear instructions for usage, the doctor bade his farewell to the family and the lawyer.

Laura tried to contain her worry. She knew the situation with Peter had been a strain on her mother. Despite their constant arguing, there had always been love between them, shared affection, advise and camaraderie. That had all died when Stiles was taken. It was a fact, things were better now than they’d been at first. Now Peter would actually initiate conversation with his sister and that took years. She’d be damned if she’d allow Lord Gerard Argent to wreck everything they’d been struggling to pull back together because he was a bitter, cruel and vengeful man.

**

Stiles didn’t want to think about it. Refused to think about it.

Gerard was taking him into the Hale’s Castle. He didn’t delude himself that this was anything other than a show of power, petty revenge, and the fact that he was pissed that the Royals had all but cut him out of their lives; cut them both clean out.

Gerard had pretended over the years that he wasn’t bothered by the slight, but before a year was up he’d been fuming. And of course Stiles suffered for that too, after all, this was all his fault.

Stiles learned from the get-go that he would be the scapegoat for everything. The one to blame for Gerard’s lust; the one to blame for his mood swings; the one to blame for the deterioration of his relationships with everyone close to him, his son included; the reason he was no longer invited to the castle; and then eventually the reason he could no longer get it up. Stiles was too short, too tall, too slender, too fat, too pale, too sunburnt, too ugly, too undesirable, and inevitably the reason for everything other than when the rain fell.

He’d learned to take it all, with no complaint and no show of emotion. He’d learned how to be a blank slate – how to control when and how his skin flushed; to control his panic attacks after Gerard almost killed him that time and he’d spent the next three days unconscious. He’d learned to wait to be granted permission to speak, kneel, stand, walk, even to relieve himself. His damn bladder was now firmly under Gerard’s control.

So he carefully selected the outfits for the noble to wear over the four days of the various events during the week, knowing what would happen when Gerard came in to check. The outfits would be all wrong until he was through with Stiles’ _punishment_. Then he’d suddenly realise the choices weren’t so bad after all. Such were the games they played; the games Gerard loved to play.

They would leave in a few days and travel for little over a day to reach Hale Castle. He was already preparing himself mentally for the carriage ride . . . _the carriage ride_.

Closed-door carriages still scared him, especially after what happened on the trip here. **_NO!_** He shut those thoughts down immediately and brutally as his hands began to shake. It was a physical tick he’d thought had been stomped out of him, literally. He knew better than to allow his emotions to flare like this. He began breathing, in for five, out for five. _Pull yourself together_! _Dammit, pull it together_ , he whispered internally because he also knew better than to let words that had not been sanctioned pass his lips, just in case.

Finally the shaking lessened. Served him right for looking back. There was nothing in his past for him. Nothing but betrayal . . . and harsh realities. Nothing but a foolish boy who’d believed lies; who’d believed love was something real.

He knew better now.

Whatever would happen on this trip, he could take it. He had four days to prepare mentally, if not physically. A smile of derision almost came as he thought back to the things he’d endured. The many times he’d prayed for death; the many times he’d thought he would die; and the many times he’d tried not to think at all.

_Peter._

_Scott._

_Melissa._

At first he’d been sure one of them would have come for him. They would fight for him. Fight and win. Surely they’d come.

. . . But he’d survived. He’d stopped believing, and he’d survived.

 _Carriage rides_.

Carriage rides scared him, and Gerard knew that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PS: I have not set this story in any particular era for a reason. So as you read, note that there may be more modern elements thrown in, simply because this is how I wish it, rather than conformation with the history of a specific time period.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Queen Talia tries to manage Gerard’s and Stiles’ arrival at Castle Hale. But will it go as planned? Does it ever when Gerard is involved?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m sorry for the lengthy delay in this follow-up. This is one of my hardest ever fics to write and I don’t know if there’s a happy ending in store.

“Your Highness?”

Melissa turned from her gown fitting. She had six days left of discussions with the traders – another benefit of the Hale/McCall merger. This meant, of course, wining and dining her guests. It was only another excuse for why she had sent apologies for missing Baby Cora’s celebrations. She knew Peter would want to attend, and if she went, Rafael would follow. In the past she’d allowed it to be believed she’d insisted on his attendance. The truth was, he held even more power now than he’d held four years ago. She couldn’t let go now, not even for a moment; not even after Stiles – especially not now. It was already all she could do to keep Peter and Rafael separate in her kingdom.

So her gift to the Hale baby would accompany Scott.

She turned to her Lady-in-Waiting, “Yes, Lori?”

“A message has arrived for you from Queen Talia, Your Highness. I was told to ensure you read it in private, and alone.”

Melissa frowned but beckoned Lori forward and dismissed the other women from the room. When Lori turned to leave, she stayed her departure, slitting open the waxed royal seal to read the contents.

‘No,” the word came out disbelieving.

“Your Highness, should I get help?” Lori asked alarmed as the Queen seemed faint for a moment.

“No!” Melissa panicked. “Is my brother here?”

“Um, he was, but he left early this morning headed into town. I’m not sure if he plans to return or head back to his properties.”

Even after only a few years in the Queen’s employ, Lori knew one thing for certain – the Queen hated her brother as much as she feared him. The two Princes, on the other hand, simply hated him – especially Prince Peter who never suffered his presence at any time, for reasons Lori still was not clear on. It had been one of the reasons for the Queen gifting the Duke his own small territory of control within the kingdom.

Melissa considered Lori. Seeming to have reached a decision. “Lori, I need you to swear to me that you will discuss the arrival of this note with no one.”

“Of course, my Queen.”

“Now, I need you to quietly find my son and his husband. I need both of them immediately.”

Lori nodded. Golden hair pulled into a bun and giving her a severe appearance. “Right away.” She wondered what news could have so unsettled Her Majesty.

**

Scott threw back his head and laughed. Peter rolled his eyes.

“I thought he was going to have a heart attack,” Scott laughed, grinning.

“He’s an idiot. It was a fool’s bet. Anyone could see that, and besides, I never lose,” he growled.

Scott’s laugh petered away as their eyes met, and Peter quickly averted his gaze. _He never lost, except when it had most mattered._ He exhaled. _It never got easier. The memory of Stiles was a living pain deep inside._

Scott knew the reason for Peter’s sudden tension and regretted bringing the matter up. No matter what he did, nothing could replace Stiles in Peter’s heart. They’d become friends, he and Peter, over the years, but all it took was an inference that led to that specific kind of memory, to ruin any enjoyable moment between them. It was still hard to think about, that’s why he tried not to think about it and certainly never talked about it.

“I’m starving and we have to leave in about two hours if we want to arrive at your sister’s by tonight. Maybe we . . .” He was interrupted by a voice calling for them from behind.

He turned to find Lori waving toward them. His brows scrunched as he wondered what it was about.

“Your Highness,” she said, coming up to them near breathless, “the Queen requires an immediate audience with you both. She says it’s most urgent.”

“Is something wrong?”

Lori hesitated on how much she should reveal, but then again the Queen had summoned the Princes after the note was delivered and although she said no one should know about it, she clearly wished to discuss it with the two. So Lori made a decision.

“She received a personal note from Hale Castle this morning. I think it has information for you both, but it’s a private matter.”

Prince Peter instantly looked worried. They were to leave soon for the journey there for the celebrations. He wondered if something had happened. His eyes met Scott’s and without a word the two broke into a quick jog back to the castle.

Lori hoped she’d not misspoken.

**

“How’s it going?”

Lydia turned as Jordan approached. She shook her head, turning back to the myriad of papers spread across her desk. “A nightmare, frankly.”

“What can I do?”

“Honestly? Short of insisting the patriarch of the Argent family not attend, nothing. Unfortunately. I’ve rearranged, restructured and redrafted these plans and however we do this there will be occasions that having the family in the same place as the Argents, specifically Lord Argent, will be unavoidable.” Lydia voiced her despair. “And how do we do all this without making a further victim out of Stiles? Any action we take is also going to affect him.”

Jordan, hmmmed. He did not have an answer to this either. While everyone had been concerned about Peter, it was this unknown Stiles that had been on _his_ mind. It was a known fact that that some servants were sometimes treated like little more than slaves, and under someone like Lord Gerard, that escalated significantly to more like animals. The man had a reputation and stories of how he ensured compliance from those that served him were widely known. What Jordan never understood was – _why Stiles_? Why was this young servant, who seemed to be prized by Queen Melissa’s son and the Queen herself, allowed to be treated like this?

Ok, sure, he wasn’t a Hale; wasn’t of the Hale Kingdom, but surely there should have been some way to stop what was happening to him. Each time he’d brought up the topic, he got the distinct impression that everyone just wanted the issue to go away. What he did not get was, “ _why_?” If he’d been Peter’s lover then surely the Prince had a duty or at least a responsibility to protect him; and what about Scott? Each time he saw Peter and Scott together he was filled again by the disquiet and more questions, especially with regard to the uncle/brother, Duke Raphael. Why did such a man have such power?

Jordan wasn’t from the Hale or McCall lands. In fact, he wasn’t even from this continent and there was so much he still didn’t understand, even after five years of knowing Laura Hale. Where he came from this kind of behaviour would not stand, at all. Where he came from a man that behaved in such a cruel and dehumanising manner to a servant was not simply given a turn of the back and cheek, he was accountable. Why was there such a lack of accountability here? Yes, sure, he understood that the Argents were the sole supplier of the armory for the Hale Kingdom, but was that enough to disregard the lives of those he threatened?

Jordan blew out a rough voice. He loved Laura, loved the Hales, but there were times he really did not understand them . . . understand any of this. He kept getting the feeling there was much about the Stiles situation to which he was not privy.

**

Melissa watched Peter’s rigid back and Scott’s downturned head and waited. When they’d both come rushing in she’d hesitated before delivering the news. They’d both been worried something had happened to one of Peter’s relatives, but the information she had to depart was just as troubling. It certainly wasn’t what they’d been expecting.

Peter had gone instantly pale. Scott had fallen into a nearby chair with a heavy swallow and seemed at loss for words as he watched his husband walk away and turn his back to them.

Scott had always known this day would come. At some point they’d have to face Stiles again, but he still held out hope it wouldn’t be anytime soon.  He wasn’t sure how to defend their lack of action. Guilt swirled in his belly.

There was so much Stiles didn’t know. So much he himself, hadn’t known until his mother had explained, but the guilt still ate at him. None of it was Stiles’ fault. He’d simply been born an accident; and accident with so many implications for the McCall family and Kingdom – Scott’s heritage.

**

He’d tried not to think about it . . . about what Stiles was going through at the hands of that man. He remembered every noise of contentment, every giggle of joy, and even the way Stiles’ nose would crinkle when Peter had said something that he found contrary or even idiotic. There were so many things Stiles had simply smirked at because he believed Peter could not possibly understand the life of a servant. And he’d been right. He’d been so right.

Peter didn’t understand. He hadn’t understood then and he didn’t now, but he knew there was no way Stiles could ever forgive. He’d lost that right when he’d allowed Stiles to be taken; and again for what happened after. He’d almost got Stiles killed. It had all been his fault and he’d known anything he did could only make it worse. How could he see Stiles again and not fall completely apart?

He straightened his back and turned to face his husband and mother-in-law. “What is my sister planning to do?”

He watched as Melissa exhaled her relief, satisfied that he’d fall into line with whatever they planned – and how could he not, after all he’d done? But maybe, just maybe if he played his cards right, be the dutiful brother and husband, he’d get his chance. He’d waited four years after all  . . .

**

Stiles was sitting on the roof when he heard a rustle behind him, the same time the smell of jasmine hit his nostrils. _Allison_ . . . only she carried that particular scent. Only she would know to look for him here. He had made sure, as he always did, that Gerard was asleep before he took such liberties as a few moments under the stars.

“It’s no less dangerous up here than it was before, you know,” she said, plopping down beside him.

Stiles merely grunted, drawing his knees to his chest and resting his head on them. He was hoping for some time to gather himself before the journey to Hale Castle tomorrow. His skin was barely healing from the bruising he got two days ago for his choices of clothing for the Christening trip to the Castle. Just as he’d expected, the Master had had an issue with what he picked and only after his punishment declared the items fit enough to be packed.

Tomorrow he would enter the carriage, alone with Gerard for little more than a day. He needed calm, not Allison right now.

**

She’d often wondered how he hadn’t jumped to his end before. Allison worried every time she found him here on the roof of her grandfather’s property, so high above the ground. But each and every time he seemed so much calmer up here.

“How are you, Stiles?” she asked softly, not moving any closer. She knew he still didn’t trust her fully. In fact, Stiles trusted no one, and who could blame him. She, better than even her parents, knew what Stiles suffered in this mansion.

“You know better than to call me that. What are you doing here, Allison?” he asked wearily.

“I . . . I have news,” she swallowed. “I’ve convinced mom and dad to travel with grandfather tomorrow to the Castle. You’ll travel with our servants in the second caravan,” she added with a small smile.

Stiles’ brown eyes swung to her and something flickered in their depths before the flatness returned and he faced forward with a “hmmm”.

“I thought you’d be happy . . .”

He sighed and started to rise. “I should get some rest, and so should you. It’s going to be a long journey tomorrow.”

Allison’s chest fell and her eyes dropped to her hands fiddling with a kerchief in her lap. “Of course. I’ll see you tomorrow, Stiles.”

He held the door open for her and slid through after she’d entered. Moment later he watched as she left the property, closing the door silently behind her. Allison sighed heavily as she rode away with one of her bodyguards/servants in tow. It broke her heart every time to see that dead despair in Stiles’ eyes, despair he hid each time her grandfather was near.

**

He liked Allison, he really did. He just couldn’t afford to trust her.

And if Gerard thought for a moment that he was becoming “friends” with his granddaughter, well . . . Stiles just shuddered to think of the consequences of such folly. So he held her at arms’ length; even if he enjoyed her company, he’d never let it show.

That was something else he had to watch, his enjoyment of things. It wouldn’t do at all to let on that he had any feelings other than what was allowed. Such thinking and feeling was dangerous.

So while Allison’s clear machinations to spare Stiles the horror of having to travel alone with Gerard for more than a day in the closed carriage was appreciated, he could not allow himself the hope that what she said was true. He knew Gerard too well and tomorrow the man could decide he didn’t like the arrangement and throw everything on its head to lock Stiles away with him for the trip. So he’d believe it when they rolled through the gates of Castle Hale and he was in the company of other servants and not rolling on the ground of a carriage bleeding – and not a second before. Then and only then, would he allow himself to relax for more than a single inhale of breath. Anything else was foolhardy, and Stiles was anything but foolish.

So he barred the doors as was the rule at night and went to seek his “bed”. He was still surprised Gerard had not requested his personal attendance tonight, but the man had been vibrating with excitement earlier and as a result had consumed more than his usual ale at dinner.

Although, just overindulgence had not stopped the horrors in the past.

Stiles shook himself. There was more than enough time for trouble later – no need to borrow it tonight.

**

Stiles was helping with the loading of bags later when the extended Argent family pulled into the courtyard. He spared nary a glance before he reentered the mansion for the next trunk.

“Chris, how good of you to be on time,” he heard Gerard say before any other comments faded into background noise.

He returned to a clearly upset Victoria and a tense Allison, and while his heart accelerated, he did not allow his anxiety, fear or curiosity to show.

“I don’t see why we can’t take our own carriage,” Victoria was saying.

There was little secret that Victoria and Gerard could not stand to be near each other. Stiles didn’t know the full history of the animosity but it was there, all the time, and well, servants gossiped and speculated. Rumour had it that Chris’ marriage to Victoria wasn’t sanctioned by Gerard, that he’d wanted Chris to marry one of his French cousins, but by the time negotiations fell apart Victoria was already pregnant.

There was also a rumour that Gerard did something to try to make Victoria miscarry the babe, but again, Stiles did not know how true any of it was because Gerard doted on Allison. While Stiles could believe such devious tactics were not above Gerard’s culpabilities, the way the man behaved around his granddaughter suggested there was little he would not do for her.

“Because mom, it’s a waste of time and space. We can easily fit in granddad’s carriage and lessen the amount of inconvenience for the Hales in finding space for this many carriages and caravans, while increasingly the likelihood of getting there faster,” Allison said, reasonably.

Chris looked worriedly from his wife to his father, and Gerard turned to smirk at Stiles, who was standing frozen on the sidelines.

“Well, I guess I could forego my own _comforts_ this time,” he laughed. “Looks like you’ll be travelling behind this time, Pet.”

Chris grimaced at his father’s nickname for Stiles. Stiles only bowed and rushed to fetch the final things to pack. He wouldn’t start celebrating yet. They still had to rest-stop a few hours ahead and things could easily change then, but he did allow himself a small exhale – miniscule, really.

**

When the party rolled through Hale gates just after midday the next day, Stiles and another servant, Hammond were the first out to assist their keepers in alighting from the closed vehicles. Members of the Royal Family were in the courtyards already as the Argents weren’t the only ones arriving for the celebrations.

A man with what looked like a list in his hand rushed forward. “Lord Argent, Mr. Argent and family, welcome. We have your party in the southern wing, but you can proceed inside while your staff unpacks. They will be shown where to go. If you’ll follow David here, he will take you in to recover from your long journey.”

Chris stepped forward to greet Laura and her husband who were standing nearby greeting guests. His wife went with him while Allison cast a worried glance at Stiles before following. Gerard grinned as he pulled up the rear. Stiles continued to help the other servants untie the trunks from the caravan.

As Gerard shook Laura’s reluctant hand, he turned and called out, “Pet?!” and Stiles rushed to his Master’s side, head down.

**

Laura forcibly hid the cringe as he retrieved her hand from Gerard’s. Jordan’s hand on the small of her back helped. But when he turned and called out, and the pale servant rushed to do his bidding, she had no doubt whom it was he had called into their presence.

“Master?” the young servant asked, not raising his bowed head and clearly waiting for further direction.

“I’ll need you to accompany me inside, as I’m feeling a little overheated after the long ride.” His eyes Laura knew, were issuing the first dare to make a remark, and she refused to be cowed.

“Lord Argent, we have quarters for the servants of our guests. One of our attendants can assist with your situating indoors, while your staff see to your belongings and valuables,” she lifted a delicate hand and within moments there were two people standing near.

“Oh, I doubt they can see to everything I need,” he cast a lascivious eye over the male and female standing near, causing the woman to blush and Laura’s cheeks to visibly heat as she clenched her teeth.

“Be that as it may, Lord Argent, servants of guests are not allowed in the main ballrooms,” she issued a chilled smile.

“Grandpa, one of the staff here can help you inside. Please, we’re holding up the line,” Allison whispered, pained.

He smirked and pinched her cheek, as Victoria hissed at the gesture, “Very well,” he said, eyes on Victoria before returning to Laura. “Return to the others and see that everything goes where it should, but wait for me in my quarters. I’ll have use for you soon.”

Stiles nodded, “Yes, Master”, and moved back to his duties.

Gerard and party disappeared indoors as Laura watched their back with disdain. Jordan squeezed her arm gently in warning, turning to greet the next guest, as his eyes sought out the one he now knew for certain was Stiles in the distance. Pity lanced through him at what the young man was sure to suffer under this roof in payment for Laura’s battle of wills against Gerard.

**

He had just taken the second trunk to Gerard’s quarters and was leaving the room to get the third when he heard, “Stiles!” The voice called his name urgently.

He turned blindly to see Scott, or rather an older version of the Scott he knew, complete with beard, rushing to him. The man enfolded him in a rough hug, rambling away about what a relief it was to see him, as if Stiles had merely been on an extended vacation these past four years.

“Oh my God, it’s so good to see you. I can’t believe you’re here!” Scott exclaimed with a wide grin and bright eyes.

And such anger rushed through Stiles that he only barely restrained the instinct to push Scott away from him; to force the arms now holding him away from his body. Stiles was still, after all, just a servant and he was in the presence of a _Prince_ and heir to a Kingdom _, the McCall Kingdom_.

Stiles forced the anger down with effort, allowing his eyes to fall away from his former best friend; forcing his mind to empty of emotion.

“I would advise you that you are touching my property without my permission,” a newcomer said from too close behind Stiles.

How neither of them had heard his approach given his size, Stiles wasn’t sure, but he swallowed tightly as Scott’s arms fell, and then so too did Stiles’ head as he waited for his Master’s censure.

“Pet, come!”

Stiles scrambled to obey, away from Scott who let out a wounded sound that Stiles hardly heard. He was trying to get his heart to calm. He was trying not to shake with fear. He **needed** to regain the control Scott had shattered by his very presence. He inhaled quietly and let it out silently through his nostrils, head still bowed.

“What have you done to him?” Scott demanded through clenched teeth, dismayed at the signs of such easy capitulation from his once spirited friend.

“Lots,” Gerard said with a chilling grin, “and lots more in a few minutes,” as he taunted.

“You son of a bitch,” Scott screamed, as his hands folded into impotent fists at his side.

“Scott!” his name echoed like a bullet as Talia glided down the corridor, skirts billowing. “I think you should retire from this wing, now. Lord Argent is a guest, and as such should be treated as such.”

But Scott was not so easily deterred. “I can’t just leave him here, not with _him_ . . .,” Scott pleaded.

“Prince Scott,” there was both warning and order in the Queen’s tone now. “My apologies for the interruption, Lord Argent.” Her eyes brushed Stiles with his downturned eyes and bowed head and she felt a pang of regret in her chest. “I will try to ensure the Prince stays out of your quarters for the duration of your visit.” The latter was said from between nearly clenched teeth and with a forced smile.

Talia turned and walked away as Gerard gripped Stiles’ arm pinching and bunching the skin beneath hard fingers. The young man uttered not a sound though he knew this would bruise later, because history had taught him it would likely be the least of the bruises he would wear in the hours to come.

“Get inside,” Gerard grated, and followed after him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave me your thoughts. If there’s anyone that wants to serve as beta for this, please message me on tumblr as deislandgirl-blog.tumblr.com.


	6. Chapter 6

Peter’s anger was glacial.

“I thought we agreed to stay away from him,” Peter turned all his ire and frustration on his husband as Talia looked anxiously between the two. “We agreed not to give Gerard a reason to find issue with this family,” _or reason to take his anger out on Stiles_ , his mind said quietly; and it was this latter reality that was the source of Peter’s irritation.

Peter had long learnt that any reminder that Stiles had been something other than solely _his property_ unleashed Gerard’s blind fury on the servant he now owned, thanks to the McCall family. Peter had learnt that fact the hard way. The way that had nearly resulted in him losing his own mind. In a way that had his sister restrain him from literally storming the Argent holdings and killing the Lord of the land with his bare hands. And he’d thought his husband understood that Gerard was not to be given any excuse to hurt Stiles because of them.

“You went into the south wing and confronted him, Scott, why the fuck would you do that? Why would you do that to Stiles?” Peter growled, voice climbing.

“You’d rather I did like you and do nothing, while he does God knows what with him under our very noses?”

The bellow that ushered from deep within Peter shocked both husband and sister, “You think this is easy for me? To stand here and do nothing? To stand here knowing he’s under the same roof? Knowing what he’s gone through; knowing . . .,” he gasped, surprising even himself as his voice shook, “knowing that I’ve had to go these past four, long years without him?”

**_And there it was._ **

“Peter!” Talia said haltingly, aware of how much those words would wound.  She glanced at Scott with hesitation.

Scott blanched, colour leeching from his face. He’d known Peter had not forgotten Stiles; _how could he?_ Deep in his heart he’d known his husband still loved him, but to hear it uttered like this, after Peter’d refused to discuss it the past years was like a blow to the solar plexus. His own reaction bewildered him.

Talia’s gaze was pitiful and Scott girded himself against it. He didn’t want the Hales’ pity. If he was honest, he just wanted someone to love. Surely that wasn’t too much to ask?

He’d tried to tell himself he wasn’t expecting that someone to be Peter to fall in love with him. Hell, they hardly ever really slept together except that one time when the bodily urges pressed – and then it had only been when Peter had been a little drunk and horny and the need for release had carried a note of desperation Scott had never seen before or since.

He’d never thought his husband cruel before, in fact, Peter had gone out of his way to ensure he didn’t press his own sexual desires onto his husband and Scott only now admitted that he’d been waiting for that to change. Scott himself had had to rely on surrogates (both male and female) to quell his own needs. But through it all, he’d allowed himself to idealistically believe Peter would come around, eventually. Peter would accept that they were married and try to make the best of the situation. But the truth that stared hard back at him in this moment was that Peter had no intention of accepting him, ever. Not once Stiles was there in the background, and at the forefront of Peter’s mind. The past four years of friendship and companionship had meant nothing.

There was nothing idealistic about the pain and anger that swamped Scott at that realization, as he watched his husband clench his fists and turn away.

**

Stiles limped gingerly from the trunks to the chest of drawers and back. He was covered in bruises, everywhere except his face. His face was left pale and clear, but everywhere ached. Gerard had been especially angry, and Stiles had been made the receptacle, as always for the feelings he could not express to Laura Hale and Scott McCall. Scott’s hands on him had spurred Gerard’s need to remind Stiles he was his and his alone.

Stiles banished the thoughts of what had happened a mere hour ago from his mind. He knew the bruises were for a purpose, a reminder that there would be no escape for him; no savior; nothing but this until Gerard finally killed him, and he finally had no doubt that just that was destined to be his end.

Stiles felt a trickle down his leg as he turned to retrieve the next item to put it away as his Master had instructed before he’d left to tour the grounds. His pant leg was now stained red, and he moved a quickly as his aching limbs would allow before anyone could see.

His Master’s lust and vengeance had been sated on the only one he considered responsible, and it would not do to have him reminded, should he return unexpectedly, of what had transpired.

**

Sweat ran down the side of his face as he swung to face his opponent – lungs burning with each gasp for breath and sweat and dirt now stinging in the several bruises across his bare torso, and still he egged the soldiers on.

Two men rushed him at once and Peter quickly dispatched the first, tossing him into the path of the other before he crashed into the second disoriented man. By now he’d gathered quite a little crowd, even hidden away in a corner that few nobles would dare tread behind the castle but one or two of the younger more adventurous ones and their eager servants did dare. Peter didn’t care though. He’d simply needed a receptacle for the anger burning in him at his husband’s careless actions.

He’d stormed from the castle ready to pick a fight and with so many royals and nobles around, he could not afford a repeat of four years ago and the actions that had started it all. When he’d circled the castle and headed off towards the soldiers’ barracks beyond the first line of trees, the raucous laughter and shouts told him he might have found just what he’d been looking for. He’d spent many a day here before he’d left his home at Hale Castle a newly married man. Now the sound of fighting made his blood sing.

Peter swiped a grimy hand across his face but still the sweat he’d attempted to remove stung his eyes – eyes that still picked up the guilt on the face of his husband at the far side of the gathering. A familiar dark-haired girl had moved up to his flanks and appeared to strike up a conversation. Her being out here surprised him; he’d have expect her to be more discrete. The inattention to the fight resulted in a beefy hand pounding into his collar bone and Peter grunted before returning focus to his fight.

**

“Aren’t you going to stop him before he kills himself?” the girl asked, pausing beside Prince Scott.

Scott darted a look of surprise in the girl . . . no . . . the woman’s direction. He hadn’t heard her approach, although now, he could clearly smell the delightful scent of jasmine that clung to her. He would have thought that such a scene as this would have kept most of the maidens away. This kind of hand-to-hand, no-holes-barred contact was often more than the sensibilities of some women could take, especially the blood sport for no reason other than sport itself.

The critical eye with which this beautiful lass was surveying the sport before her, led him to believe she wasn’t quite like other maidens. When her gaze turned back to him, Scott blushed. She truly was beautiful.

“He’s fine. He . . . needs it,” Scott swallowed heavily, feeling doubly guilty for his surprising attraction to the lass, while his husband stood half-naked only a few feet before them. “Should you even be out here? This is not part of the celebrations. Perhaps I should have someone escort you back to the castle, my lady.”

Now the lass’ eyebrows rose high. She looked at him with a mixture of what he thought could be annoyance, mirth and a little sadness. “Is this because Stiles is here?”

The question jerked Scott, who stumbled before turning to her anxiously. “Who are you?” his voice no longer gentle, but now suspicious.

“Allison . . . Argent. Daughter of Chris Argent . . . my grandfather’s . . .”

“Gerard,” Scott snarled, and Allison took a hasty step back.

“Stiles is my friend . . .” she said quickly as if in defense of any actions to follow.

At Scott’s look of disbelief, she added promptly. “Ok, maybe not friend . . . he doesn’t exactly allow anyone close enough to be a friend, but I like him and I don’t support what my grandfather does . . . to him.” Shame engulfed her and that perhaps calmed Scott a bit.

She paused, “I’m only here to help.”

Her gaze returned to Peter, who was shaking hands with the men who were either slapping him on the back in support or grimacing at the bruises the Prince left behind.

**

Peter vaulted over the small fence around the make-shift ring, rotating his shoulder with a wince, and walked to where the two were standing, both eyes watching his procession.

“Argent,” he said, tilting a pitcher of what Scott hoped was water to his head.

“Prince Peter,” she executed a small bow to the royal whose family still ruled the lands over which her family resided.

“You have news for me?” Peter said and kept his face haughty and forbidding in case anyone was observing the exchange. He would not have it seem like he was making friends with an Argent in public.

Water dribbled from the corners of his mouth as Scott goggled at the two. He wished, not for the first time his husband’s face wasn’t such an open book.  Scott’s surprise at his’ and Allison’s dealings could not become an issue, certainly not here in the open.

“Yes, everything is in place . . . but not here,” Allison responded, clearly on the same wavelength as Peter about such an open meeting. “Meet me in an hour, you know where.”

She looked at Scott again with sorrow. “And make sure you are not followed. Perhaps now is the time to bring your husband into this as you’ve clearly not done so.” She executed another bow and glided swiftly away.

“What news could she possibly have for you?” Scott demanded.

Peter looked at his husband for a long while. “We need to talk, but not here.” Peter walked away, and Scott followed with a heavy and hesitant heart.

**

Gerard had spent the last hour trying to find something or someone in the crowd of “nobles” gathered for the celebrations, worthy of his time. His business associate, he’d found out, would not arrive until late evening, and most of the others still avoided him, even though he’d seen his son and his useless wife engaged and laughing with one of the Councilors.

So he’d set off in a different direction. When the stables again yielded nothing worthy other than memories of his first meeting with his “Pet”, who had already slaked his thirst for the afternoon, he wandered a little more, staying away from the other guests. That’s how he spotted the back of his granddaughter headed off into the trees to the rear of the property, alone.

He frowned but followed from a discrete distance. When she stopped to engage the young upstart Prince in conversation he almost rushed forward to pull her away from the vermin. But the longer he watched, the more discomforted he felt.

When Prince Peter of Hale walked over, he began to seethe that Allison simply stood there and engaged the man in discussion, in front of others who no doubt knew of the bad blood between the Hales and Argents. It was a personal affront to him. He hadn’t even known the two were acquainted, and clearly neither did Scott. That raised his suspicion even more.

From the time Allison had first laid eyes on Stiles, she had been unhappy with her grandfather for the first time in his recollection. It had been a mere six months into his ownership of the young man. She’d asked many questions about him and while she hadn’t voiced concerns then, her countenance had changed; her visits to his home reduced.

But then months later she had returned and this time with not only questions but clear disapproval. It had got to the point where he’d had to issue directives to his “Pet” to stay out of sight whenever his family visited, especially his granddaughter. Much to his consternation though, that did not stop the questions or censure from the young girl he loved like a daughter.

He pretended not to know when she first spoke to Stiles, tried to engage him in conversation, but by then the “Pet” was so well trained that he’d come immediately to disclose that Allison had sought him out, clearly expecting punishment. Gerard knew better though; he wanted to know what she was up to, talking to his servant. So he’d allowed it, but whenever he questioned Stiles, the boy was extremely forthcoming about every conversation they’d had.

Even so, he’d almost missed it. The first attempt at stealing his Pet away from him, and Stiles had paid for Peter’s stealth, although the boy had never known. It was the first time he’d been angry enough to near claim the boy’s life. His own anger had shocked . . . and delighted him, but his lack of control had resulted in Stiles’ confinement to bed for near a week. Those three-and-a-half days were more than Gerard could stand. So he’d tempered his future responses to ensure even where there was injury, it was not so severe that his “Pet” would become useless to him.

Now this meeting between Peter, Scott and the chit he’d treated like a daughter left him with questions. He’d always known Peter could not have gotten that close without help. So now, he wondered . . . and plotted.

If his granddaughter had betrayed him, he’d have more lessons to teach this day. And if his “Pet” thought to keep information from him . . .

Something dark bubbled deep inside at the mere thought.

**

“Where’re you off to?”

Allison jumped at her father’s voice behind her in the stables.

“Dad, I just thought some fresh air would be nice. The entire place is filling up. I just need a moment of solitude,” she smiled at him.

“Certainly not alone!” Chris chastised her seeming lapse in judgement.

“I’m not alone, dad,” she gestured to her servant, leading a mare out of the nearby enclosure. “And I can take care of myself, dad,” she answered, stepping up onto the nearby stool and vaulting into the saddle of the horse before Chris could even step forward to lend assistance.

From the age of three she’d proven to be willful and independent. She hadn’t changed other than to become more obstinate over the years, and their training to reinforce her independence, he suppose now, had not helped in the least.

“Allison, I know we’ve taught you to defend yourself but the whole point is not to need to. I forbid this ride.”

“If I may, Mr. Argent,” came Scott’s voice behind them, “I was actually about to take a ride myself. I’m sure myself and my guard, along with Miss Argent’s servant can keep her safe.”

His smile was more of a shaky grimace and Chris looked unconvinced for a moment.

“Thank you, Your Highness. That would be lovely,” she quickly rejoined before he could further comment.

Chris grinded his teeth together in displeasure, but how could one say no to the Royal?

“Ok, but I expect you back well before dark, Allison. You’re expected to be at the ladies greeting with Princess Laura and the other ladies at 5.”

“I’ll be back by then. Thanks, dad.” She jolted the horse into motion as the servant did likewise, following the Prince who had in the meanwhile also mounted his beast.

Chris watched them go with a deep disquiet, one he could not shake as they disappeared out the back of the stables and were quickly swallowed up by nearby trees.

**

Stealth was something he’d been taught almost from the cradle and he had reared his son the same. Pity that Chris had turned out to be such a disappointment, turning away from his training in the proper place for servants, women and the like.

But Gerard was nobody’s chump, and before he left the Hale Castle in three days’ time, they’d all know it – especially his treasonous granddaughter who’d proven she could not be trusted. They’d pay for corrupting her, and she’d pay too, he swore it now, as he watched the servant disappear with the three into the distance.

**

John was no fool. Regardless of how much wool they tried to pull over his eyes, he was no one’s fool, and the Queen was no good at hiding her anxiety from him. He knew all the signs to look for – had known since she was a child.

Sometimes he could hardly believe Melissa was his wife. He’d had an entirely different life mapped out for himself. A life that involved a woman long dead and promises they’d made to each other before he went off to war and returned to a broken heart. He’d always blamed himself for not being here when she needed him most. To have lost his beloved Claudia to a fever like that still haunted him. Had he been there he could have got her the care she needed, but no, he was off leading an expedition, with a vastly depleted army, hoping to recruit new soldiers to the dwindling McCall regiment.

He’d grieved for years and Melissa had been there the entire time. He was still surprised her father had consented to the wedding and seemed almost eager to see them settled – he, a soldier without a real title or pedigree. But Melissa and Claudia had been close friends, despite the fact that Claudia had been her Lady in Waiting, the last of her family line and in love with a mere, undeserving soldier such as he.

From the time he’d known her brother Rafael, he’d distrusted the man – too quick to anger and with a dark heart that put some of the men John had met in battle to shame. It had been John who’d forced Melissa into acting when he’d first seen the treatment of a then six-year-old Stiles at the hands of the Duke. He could not abide the bruises he’d seen on the child. Something about the scrawny lad ate at his insides and after all the tragedy of war, he could not have such atrocities conducted right under his nose.

So Stiles had become Scott’s servant, rather more like friend and brother, but at least the Duke was at arm’s length for as long as John was near.

Rafael hated him for the interference, he knew that, but he didn’t care – for the man nor his feelings toward him. The two had never and would never be amicable toward each other and that was fine by John.

But then came news of Stiles’ trade, and on this Melissa would not be move, no matter what John did. So he waited and watched the situation that made no sense. It was clear as day to him that Peter was in love with the boy; and he watched with growing worry Scott’s own surprising behavior to the whole thing. He would have expected Scott to kick down every door to get Stiles back from Lord Argent, and yet he’d kept waiting.

When it was clear nothing was to be done, he’d began his own “investigations”, although the first had ended in near tragedy and had scared Peter enough for the man to take a step back and reevaluate any further efforts. But John knew there was no way Stiles was better off in the clutches of that maniac than dead. In fact, he might as well be dead if the stories of the atrocities visited upon him were even remotely true.

They were close now, so very close. His contact inside Hale Castle had hitched a plan. He just hoped Peter and his lot had the fortitude to see it through, because husband of the Queen or not, John could no longer sit quietly in this.

**

“Are you mad? This won’t work. Furthermore, it’s likely to get us all drawn and quartered.” Scott objected.

“What’s your solution then,” Allison challenged strongly. “This is our only chance. I promise you if he spends one more year with my grandfather, he’ll either take his life or he’ll take his own. Stiles has nothing to live for anymore. And if I have to do this without you, I will!” her voice shook with passion.

“No, we’ll be ready,” Peter promised. “But it has to work, because he’s dead anyway if we fail,” he added, looking at his husband who lowered his eyes and swallowed heavily.

**

On the back of his horse, following behind Peter, Scott knew – if this plan worked the McCalls had so much to lose. But the guilt ate at him again. Didn’t they deserve it though, after everything was said and done?

Peter would hate him when he found out, and so would Allison, whom he had conflicting feelings about now. He admired her strength and resolve, more than he had ever in anyone else. But so much was at stake.

Not for the first time he wished his mother had kept her secrets to herself. He was doomed, however this played out.

**

Stiles was cold, trembling as he stumbled from his Master’s room. A nearby guard hauled him in roughly, shaking him, eyes suspicious yet fearful. He saw the man’s mouth moving, but could make hide nor hair of what he was saying.

There was a buzzing in his ears as he was thrust from one guard into the arms of another who gripped him even tighter. Then the cry went up, and soon the south wing was swarming with guards and guests alike, all looking at him in horror.

“Stiles what did you do?” Chris’ anxious tone was the first to penetrate. He appeared to be still in late evening wear.

“Stiles?” Chris shook him gently, probably more gently than he deserved.

“I didn’t . . . I didn’t do anything.” Big whisky eyes pleaded with pale blue as the guards dragged Stiles away to the cells for the second time in four years. It seemed he was destined to be locked away each time he entered Hale Castle – and just like the first time, he had no clue what had happened this time either.

He had no memory except the bits and pieces he could scrape together of the supremely irate Gerard who’d descended on him after the servant had come a-whispering in his Master’s ears. He recalled only one previous time that he’d seen him that angry. Everything after that was a painful blur.

He couldn’t remember. Didn’t know why he was covered in blood.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scott swung when the door crashed back on its hinges. The Peter that stood there was pale, heaving and out of breath like he’d never seen him.
> 
> He stepped forward with deliberation. “Did you know?”
> 
> Scott took a trembling step back, suddenly afraid. “Did you?!” Peter bellowed at the man he’d married, a man he’d thought wanted the same things he did, but suddenly wasn’t so sure.
> 
> Scott’s mouth went dry as no response came.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know the breaks are long, but school, work and illness has been my life recently.
> 
> Warnings for a major character death.

Stiles huddled in a cold corner of the familiar room. The pallet was just as hard as it had been the first time he and this room had crossed paths, but he somehow suspected that the results when he was “escorted” from it would be just as jolting as last time.

He looked down at his blood-stained hands and clothing – Yup, he was sure this time he would face certain death.

**

** EARLIER THAT EVENING **

Scott rushed into his and his husband’s assigned chambers, already shedding his clothes in a rush to get ready to run down to the dining hall. He tutted at the speck of blood on the edge of his trousers from a long evening of activity. He’d have to see if housekeeping could get it out, but later.

He arrived at dinner late and Peter was nowhere to be found. His eyes searched the entirety of the ballroom, noting as well that Allison Argent was also absent.

He personally had his own reasons for being late, but it seemed any number of guests were arriving later than the 6 p.m. start of the first evening’s dinner. He took his seat, only for the event organiser, Lady Lydia to frown at his tardiness. Down the table, the Queen herself raised an eyebrow at the blatant empty chair next to him. He swallowed and offered a tiny shrug. He had no idea where Peter was and hoped whatever was delaying him would not take much longer.

**

When the McCall Prince entered the hall, noticeably late and minus his husband and Allison, Chris felt a shiver of unease. By the time he had departed his own chamber and knocked on his daughter’s, one of her maids had alerted him that Allison had not yet made it back from her evening ride to dress for the dinner. He’d warned her not to miss the event. They’d be having words about this later.

When he noted that the Princes were also absent, as was his own father, his unease grew. He suffered through the first serving before the itch to slip silently from the room became near unbearable as his wife threw him a concerned eye, looking pointedly at their daughter’s empty chair. Hell would probably freeze over before Victoria gave a damn about Gerard’s whereabouts. As far as his wife was concerned, Chris’ father could happily burn in hell. But just when he would have shoved caution and propriety aside and go searching for Allison, his previously unnoticed daughter slid into her seat, late and flushed, moments before Prince Peter likewise took his seat at the head table with a low and obviously apologetic bow to the Queen and heiress.

At the head table itself, the tension was thick as a velvet curtain. The heiress seemed unsettled and kept glancing at the position far down the centre of the room where their table sat and where Lord Gerard should have been sitting . . . but wasn’t. Several times Chris observed Princess Laura’s husband, Jordan, lean over to have words with her as if to settle her nerves.

But his father’s seat still remained vacant and his absence was starting to create a spectacle.

Something was wrong. Chris could feel it in his bones.

**

Peter kept an eye on the Argent table. Throughout the speeches and well-wishes as they continued to sup, there was still no sign of Gerard. His eyes met Allison’s and he saw her swallow heavily before she allowed her eyes to fall.

He turned watchful eyes on his husband, who immediately fiddled with his napkin nervously.

Peter continued to munch on his meat, chewing in a most self-satisfied manner, noting that his knuckles were quite sore, but he held back any flinching. It would not do to reveal any anxiety or discomfort now to attract further attention, but every moment the speculation continued to swirl at the empty chair at the Argent table was a moment their carefully laid plan could be shattered to hell and back.

**

Allison slowly felt her nerves start to desert her. Every second that there was no action in the seat to her left was a moment that ratcheted her fear higher.

When she felt a heavy gaze on her, she’d lifted her downcast head momentarily to realise it was the Princes, both of them. But her dad was frowning at her and looking from her to the head table, so she’d dropped her head again and continued with her meal while trying to control the tremble of her knife.

**

From the corner of the room, another set of eyes were also trained on the Argent table, and those eyes noted with interest the seemingly significant glances from the Hale/McCall end of the room. It would do to keep a close eye there for the future. But for the moment, the unnoticed stranger was more concered with staying under the radar. Enough attention had been drawn by the late arrival of a few guests, much to the Queen’s displeasure, and the suspicious absence of Lord Gerard Argent. It was like the room was holding its collective breath for his eventual appearance.

The man’s very name made the stranger want to spit and snigger at the same time, but if the stranger kept quiet and followed the roles already set in motion, then things should go smoothly from here.

**

Dinner had only shortly been concluded when Chris hastened from the dining hall. It wasn’t like Gerard to have missed this first dinner. He’d thought, knowing Gerard, that he would have found some clever and dastardly way to rub the presence of Stiles in the Hales’ faces. His absence was most conspicuous.

The only thing that had held him from sending a servant to check in on Gerard’s tardiness was the fact that if his father was in one of his moods, there was no telling how he’d respond to the interruption by a servant. Chris was simply mitigating the possibility of disaster. Plus, there was little doubt that the Hales had breathed a lot easier by the end of the evening and his no-show; especially, Peter, who’d met his eyes only briefly after he’d caught him staring at Allison again with what looked like a questioning glance.

He had just crested the stairs to the second floor when an alarm was raised from the floor above – the floor and wing where Gerard’s quarters were located . . . and Chris broke into a run.

**

** LATER THAT EVENING **

Within moments the corridors were filled with guests whom the Hale guards were trying to usher from the scene.

Chris stared in shock at Stiles. The young man seemed more than a little groggy, though he managed to utter a slurred and scared denial from between bloodied lips to Chris’ hasty questions about what had happened. The guard standing at the door looked at Chris with a measure of hesitancy as Stiles was dragged out of sight and he tried to enter the room that his father had occupied since they arrived. As he went to forcibly remove the man standing in his way, Dr. Deaton rushed passed them both with a bag in hand and Chris quickly ducked after him.

Before him was a most macabre scene that would have turned his stomach had he not been reared on violence himself. The room was near painted red with what appeared to be Gerard’s blood. The violence that had been visited on the man was breath-taking in its ferocity. He’d been beaten and slashed to bits.

Surely Stiles could not have done this; and surely not by himself?

Chris turned to see the dispassionate face of Peter standing in the door. There was a flicker of something in his eyes before the expression was wiped from his face and his eyes once again met Chris’ but this time forthrightly before he slowly turned and marched away from the scene.

And Chris wondered.

**

Scott was scared. He hadn’t felt this much terror since the last time Stiles had been in this castle and he’d watched his friend being dragged into the courtyard before being tossed into a carriage Scott was forbidden from following.

Now the terror was for three reasons. The first was that news was spreading that Stiles was once again in the Hale’s cells and he didn’t know where Peter was; Talia had sent word that she was sending home for his mother, the Queen and Uncle Rafael as he stood there trembling and contemplating the consequences this night would bring; and finally, he and Peter should have been each other’s alibis for tonight – alibis he’d expected to hold. Now, he wasn’t so sure. The problem was neither knew where the other had been at the time Doc Deaton was saying Gerard had likely been killed. Add to that the bloody state of Peter’s clothes from his time in the pits with the soldier – one could never tell whose blood was whose by the state of the garments.

The body had been cold and starting to stiffen by the time the doctor got there, so chances were he was killed shortly before the lengthy evening dinner, for which so many guests had been late, including those for whom Gerard was no friend.

But Scott wondered if that would even be a factor now they apparently thought they had the culprit in the cells. He tried not to think how this could turn out if certain details were to come to light now.

**

Peter paced. Up. Down. Up. Down, while he waited. His contact should have gotten word to him forever ago. He could care less about Gerard, just as long as . . . he heard quick footsteps down the dark passage in the depths of the castle. In the dark a note was slipped to him from a shape he could only barely make out and was followed by a whispered, “I’m sorry.”

That was when his heart started to beat rapidly. He surged out of the corridor, ripping open the missive to read the hastily scribbed words, and the fear almost brought him. No, it couldn’t be.

He rushed to find his husband.

**

Scott swung when the door crashed back on its hinges. The Peter that stood there was pale, heaving and out of breath like he’d never seen him.

He stepped forward with deliberation. “Did you know?”

Scott took a trembling step back, suddenly afraid. “Did you?!” Peter bellowed at the man he’d married, a man he’d thought wanted the same things he did, but suddenly wasn’t so sure.

Scott’s mouth went dry as no response came.

**

Talia felt her temples throb again. She’d already dispatched a messenger to the McCall lands an hour ago instead of at first light. It was late, but if he rode like she’d instructed, he could be there in about 14 hours. This situation had the potential to blow up rather spectacularly, especially with so many already remarking on Peter’s bruises, his and his husband’s late arrivals at dinner, as well as Peter’s callous viewing of Gerard’s corpse. Rumours were swirling again and she had more than enough trouble on her hands right now to deal with them all.

She had no doubt that Peter could have done this and probably would have too. But did he? She felt a frisson of fear that she couldn’t answer the question one way or another. The man her brother had become in the last four years was a stranger to her.

**

Her daughter was surprisingly dry-eyed for someone who’d just lost her grandfather. Victoria didn’t know what to make of it. Vicky herself would love to dance on the damn man’s grave – good riddance to bad garbage, but Allison usually abhorred murder, of any kind.

Victoria had wanted to follow Chris as he’d left the hall, but Allison was not herself and after too many side-glances by Prince Scott and then the lengthy questioning stare from Prince Peter when the alarms sounded, she wasn’t about to let her only child out of her sight for a single moment.

So when Chris’ steps on the stairs turned into a full gallop, she simply watched with too many growing questions as her daughter had swallowed heavily and breathed shakily. Then when the rumours started and Chris returned with news of Gerard’s death and Stiles’ imprisonment, Allison had met her eyes briefly and Victoria did not know how to parse what she saw in the identical depths.

**

Peter rushed to the cells and had to be restrained when told he could not access the person beyond the doors.

Stiles was not supposed to be still in the castle. How the hell had this happened? And he’d be damned if they’d stop him this time.

The guards quickly sent for reinforcements, and the Queen. They had very specific orders. The young and blood-spattered servant was to have no visitors until such time as the Queen herself decreed otherwise.

**

“Peter!” Talia bellowed as she came upon the scene of two of her guards bloodied and on the ground, four more restraining her brother. “Peter, stop! This instant.”

“You can’t,” he cried in a broken voice. “He didn’t do this. He wouldn’t do this . . . he’ll hang for something he didn’t do. Please, Tal, help him. Help me. Don’t do this.”

She moved up to him as he crumpled to the ground in front of the still locked doors, all will to fight seeming to have drained out of him.

Talia felt like her heart was being crushed to bits by the despair pouring off her brother and reflected in his eyes. She’d only ever wanted his happiness and her Kingdom’s peace. She could finally admit to herself looking at the almost shell of a man at her feet that maybe her actions had been too self-serving after all. She’d never meant to cause him this much pain.

The marriage and joining of the Hales and the McCalls was supposed to strengthen them both; but it’d so far brought nothing but misery. So she straightened her back and made a touch decision.

“Leave us!” she instructed Liam, who’d been the one to fetch her with news of the disturbance in the cells. Her trusted guard proceeded to escort the rest of his men from the chamber. She knew Liam would remain near should Peter become a danger to her, but without the keys Liam held, there was no way Peter could gain access beyond the heavy doors anyway.

“Did you do this, Peter?”  She hated that she had to ask. Her brother looked up with haunted, tearful eyes. “I can’t help if you don’t trust me. I can’t save him if you don’t help me. If I’m to break Treaty with the McCalls over this servant, you have to help me here. I love you and I will protect our family to the last of my breath, and if that means I must protect this boy too for your sake, I need to know everything.”

Peter looked at her for a long time, indecision warring with memories of the bond they’d once shared that he’d once thought nothing could shatter until he’d begged her to break his engagement to save a man he’d fallen in love with and she didn’t. Now, with no other choice, he began to speak. He told his sister, his Queen, everything.

**

Scott paced, more agitated that he’d ever been. He’d lost Peter now, of that he was certain – even his friendship was gone. But could he still save his childhood friend? He didn’t know.

He felt a profound shame that he’d been so wrapped up in himself that he’d disregarded what all this meant for Stiles – the pain, fear, humiliation. Peter was right, he would burn in hell for what he’d allowed Stiles to suffer all these years.

For the first time since Stiles was dragged away four years ago, Scott allowed himself to cry.

**

Melissa sat heavily on the chaise as hr brother plucked the note from her fingers.

The out-of-breath and exhausted messenger had arrived just after midday. The note he carried explained his state and the grave nature of what was before them. She would have wished Rafael not know any of this, but it didn’t matter now. He had been here when the commotion sounded in the courtyard and besides, she would have had to inform him anyway.

The glee that had shone in his eyes made her sick to her stomach. Their secrets would surely come home to roost now. Not for the first time, she wished her father was still alive to give her counsel. How was she to survive what was coming?

“What’s happened?” John asked from the doorway, looking suspiciously between the two siblings.

She could not speak. She felt a numbness that would not dissipate.

“Well, John, it would seem that my former servant has got himself into a real spot of trouble this time. He’s killed his Master and a Lord of the Hale Court – an offence, which as you know is punishable by death,” Rafael said with too much pleasure for John’s liking.

“And they’re sure he did this? That Stiles, did this?”

“He was caught red-handed . . . literally,” he smirked. “Now my sister and I will go try to clean up the mess and preserve our Treaty with the Hales, no thanks to that worthless whore that once served us.”

John grinded his teeth together. “I’m coming with you,” he said, decision made with finality and Melissa’s eyes blew wide open.

Rafael chuckled, like he was dealing with a silly child. “Don’t be ridiculous, John. There’s no need for you to bother. This is a matter that concerns my sister, her son and myself. The preservation of the Treaty is of the utmost importance now.”

“I would think the life of a servant of _this Court_ , who’s been so badly and obviously abused, regardless or maybe because of unjust deals that might have seen him illegally dispatched to the Argents was of more importance.”

Rafael’s face hardened. “What do you mean by that? Stiles was mind to do with as I wished,” he blustered.

“Not according to the laws set in place by your father before he died, but we’ll see,” John speared a hard glance at his wife who could not look him in the eye, before turning his back on them both.

The Duke swung on her, anger and violence a very present threat, “ **What** have you told him?”

And Melissa trembled.

**

John was done.

He was done playing the vacant, vapid husband who was good for nothing but keeping the castle’s armies in line. He was done being used as both the soft: and hard hand that earned the kingdom its many alliances.

He’d lost count of the number of kingdoms that had signed treaties of cooperation with the McCalls in the past near 20 years of his leadership of the armies. His men were loyal, fair on the battlefield and this more than anything else earned them the respect others craved. And so, over the years it had ceased being a surprise when kings and heirs to kings had approached him, waving flags of peace to parlay for agreements of cooperation.

While new trading routes had also opened to them, that was the responsibility of Duke Rafael, and while many were eager to join alliances in hopes of having kinship to train their soldiers, many mistrusted the Queen’s brother. So what should have been lucrative arrangements with their new alliances quickly fizzled because no one trusted enough to do business with the Duke despite his standing with the elders of the Court.

This was what led Melissa, at John’s advice,  to seek out the Hales. John had known, if no one else, the Hales would have been easily able to deal with the shady Duke. The rest of what transpired had been a clusterfuck he’d never expected.

But he would not be deterred. To castle Hale he would go and things would be set right or he’d claim a few limbs himself. The boy had suffered enough!

**

When Chris and Victoria were summoned into the Queen’s quarters, they could not refuse. What surprised was Allison’s insistence on joining them. She’d been scarily silent since news of Gerard’s demise filtered down and even moreso when it became known that Stiles was being charged with his murder.

Allison followed solemnly as they were led into the Queen’s office. Seated nearby was a red-faced, bleary-eyed Prince Scott, who refused to meet her eyes and a very tense Prince Peter, whose eyes ever so often darted to his husband before his nostrils would flare and he looked away.

 

Chris wanted to start with the myriad of questions buzzing around in his head but it would be rude to speak before the Queen gave leave to do so. That, coupled with the fact that her personal guard Liam, and two others were stationed in the room was also concerning.

Talia rose and came forward. “Chris, Victoria, thank you for coming. I know under the circumstances it is customary to extend condolences and promise that swift justice will be dealt to the perpetrator, whom in this instance would be the _servant_ known as Stiles, but the last few hours have been anything but customary.”

As Chris wondered at the emphasis on the word servant, he watched the blood yet again leech from Allison’s already pale face, as the Queen invited them to have a seat, with, "I think we have a Jot to talk about . . .”

“I did it!” Allison cried out, as a tear trekked down her cheek.

“Allison!?” Victoria’s voice shook as she took an abortive step toward her daughter.

“I couldn't let him continue doing what he was to Stiles. Someone had to stop him!” she cried, pleading eyes focused on those in the room. “I did it, before dinner! That’s why I was late.”

Scott uttered a painful sound; and Talia closed her eyes with a heavy sigh.

“Your Highness . . .,” Chris said haltingly with a note of panic in his voice. “She couldn't have . . . wouldn’t . . .,” he faltered.

“No she wouldn't, because I did,” Victoria said in a rush. Allison’s head instantly swivelled toward her mother.

And Talia sighed again.

“Everyone just shut up. Liam?” she said, and her guard, knowing her well, proceeded to evacuate the room of anyone that wasn't a Hale, McCall or Argent.

“You’re not going to confess as well are you?” she asked Chris once the room was cleared, “because it seems everyone has suddenly caught a case of the confessions. As of this moment, I have four,” she looked scathingly at her brother and his husband, “in a situation where only one person is covered in the evidence, where said person has no recollection of having committed the crime and four individuals with no evidence of having committed said crime, confessing to its commission.”

Chris wasn’t sure whether to shake some sense into his wife or his daughter as both were apparently trying to glare each other into submission.

Now I will caution, before anyone else makes themselves liable for this mess we have on our hands, let’s sit and be honest with each other, for once. I think I have information that you need to know about our prisoner.

Talia showed her guests to comfortable chairs and launched into the story of which she’d only become aware of pieces and parts from both Peter and Scott a matter of hours before . . . before her brother had sworn to suffer whatever punishment in Stiles' place should the young man not be cleared of the charges given the extenuating circumstances, and that was before Scott had likewise burst into the cells and guiltily told what he knew and likewise swore to protect Stiles now, however he could.

The McCalls had a lot to answer for when they arrived, and by all that was holy, Talia swore they would.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, so I’m back. Between work, studies and just my fucked up life, I’ve had a hard couple months. I’ve only been reading fanfiction, commenting sometimes, but not written a single thing until today. Call this therapy.
> 
> I almost lost the will to continue this, so the chapters from here on will be shorter because the pain in this story really is draining. I’m going to try to wrap it all up within two more chapters. I would recommend starting from the top (if you care to) as I’ve done some editing to the original earlier chapters for errors and continuity, although the story line hasn’t changed.

John elected to travel on horseback. He didn’t trust himself in a carriage with his _wife_ and brother­in-law.

The anger was already thrumming though him to take matters into his own hands. They’d left the messenger behind to recover from his hectic ride to the McCall lands. The man would probably be on his way back in less than 12 hours, but he needed rest first.

At this pace, however, John was sure they would arrive at Castle Hale either in the wee hours of the night or at least by first light. By then, Stiles would have been imprisoned for more than 36 hours. And that – that burned deep.

He spurred the horse faster, not caring that in minutes the carriage was more than several hundred metres behind him. The way he was feeling at the moment, the greater the distance the better.

**

Rafael hadn’t said a word to her since they’d departed from home in a haste. Melissa knew he was still quietly seething at John’s audacity at accompanying them uninvited. She, on the other hand, was glad to have her husband near with the real threat of violence enclosed in this carriage with her.

John might have very little respect for her anymore, but she knew his honour would not allow her to be harmed at the hands of her brother, and despite his desire for the throne and even more power, he would be hard pressed to explain her bruises, even if in the past he’d talked his way out of nearly every infraction.

And that, was the only thing that kept her from full blown panic.

**

The Duke’s mind was running a mile a minute.

Melissa had been vague about what and how much John knew, but he held no illusions that the man did not know something. It must be something significant enough for him to be responding to Rafael the way he was.

Sure, ok, there had never been any love lost between them. In fact, despite his status, Rafael had always envied John and he still did. No matter how much influence Rafael held and how many men he blackmailed and brow-beat into getting it, John somehow always managed to amass more. The man had a love of the people that he just could not match. He’d been personally waiting for years now for John to show up at his door with weapons drawn and demanding answers. Even now his heart pounded at the thought, but he was a Duke dammit! He was of Royal blood, something John would never have. But even as his mind said it, it felt hallow. Not enough to suffice when it really mattered.

But he’d be damned – quite literally – if by the end of tomorrow Stiles was not dead. He cast a hard eye at his sister who seemed to melt ever more subtly into the side of the carriage once she saw his gaze.

Yes, damned he would be – and he felt a vicious frisson of glee in acknowledging that so would she. His ‘oh so perfect’ sister was every bit as guilty as he.

**

Stiles stared at the bread, meat and mug suspiciously. Was this to be his last meal? Was that why it was laid out like a treat? Or was he dreaming again, maybe the Master’s final beating had succeeded where none other had and scrambled his brains.

His stomach warbled, reminding him that he’d not had a single morsel for more than a day now. Yesterday they’d sent water and bread, alone, and that was even more than what he would have expected a prisoner like himself to be fed, though to be honest he’d also expected mold on the bread then. But that made today’s offering all the more suspect. Why would they give him meat, and what smelled like ale in that mug?

His stomach cramped and he gave another painful groan. The smells alone made water spring to his otherwise dry mouth, and he unconsciously smacked painfully bruised and split lips, then made up his mind. _He was dead anyway_ , he decided. Whether it was by this delicious-smelling morsel that he still highly suspected was poisoned or at least laced with something, or the hangman’s noose that was sure to follow . . . ah well, everyone died eventually and he’d rather be dead with a full stomach than ever live again as he had the past four years. Besides, there wasn’t anything worse they could do to him that he hadn’t already suffered.

Despite the fact that his Master was surely now dead, short of a quick death himself, he did not look forward to what walking out of the cell a semi-free slave would mean. Then it would remain to be seen to whom the _Argents_ or _McCalls_ would sell him next _(provided he lived and he had no hope whatsoever of that)_ , but he frankly was in no hurry to find out his fate.

Still in a measure of pain, but nothing he hadn’t felt before, he crawled to near the door and dragged the tray to back to his pallet.

**

“No, it can’t be true,” Chris said, dazed. “How reliable is your source?” he asked, looking to the Queen, barely even realising he was actually questioning the Monarch’s word.

The Queen had since sent for Jordan, who now lounged near Talia, leaning again her desk with a hard, serious face and arms crossed in defiance – to whom he still wasn’t sure.

“I believe my brother, and even if I doubted the source of _his_ information, my son-in-law and Scott have both confirmed it,” she assured softly.

Scott had yet to raise his head, but Allison stood and walked over to where he was seated. She knelt at his feet, ducking her head to look him in the face. “Is this true? You know this to be true,” she said almost gently, heart pounding in her chest.

The eyes that met hers were pained and they both knew why. Scott could only nod as Alison drew in a strong, deep breath before she stood to face the room. “So what are we going to do about this? He has to be released!” she said indignantly.

“And he will be, but not before we get some answers. If we are to have even the merest hope of him not falling to worse than has been done, I think even more than his release, more than his freedom, he deserves the truth,” Talia said, again gently, running a hand across her brother’s tense shoulders. “There are a lot of wrongs to be righted but none of it will happen tonight. I’ve already ensured he will have a comfortable rest and food tonight and he will be guarded around the clock – for what might very well be his own safety. Now, might I suggest we all retire and resume this conversation once the McCalls arrive?”

“And you won’t warn them?” Victoria spat at Scott and Allison cringed as Scott flinched.

He shook his head again. He was as much to blame now as anyone in his family and he would do what needed to be done from here on out.

One by one the Argents filed out, and when his sister would have stayed, Peter nodded for her to leave him alone with his husband. It was past time that they settled things between them. In fact, time was up.

**

“You hate me, don’t you?” Scott asked in a voice heavy with regret, shame and self-loathing.

Peter sighed heavily. There was blame to be had all around. He could not condemn Scott unless he delivered the same punishment to himself for what Stiles had suffered and continued to suffer. He could have done more . . . better; they both could’ve.

“I don’t hate you, Scott. I’m . . . ,” he tried to find words for all the emotions bubbling up from within him. “I’m angry. I’m confused and hurt, but mostly angry, at myself even more than I am at you. I’m the one who started this. I should have been the one to protect him. When it all came down to it, he needed my protection and I failed to give it.”

“At least you tried . . .”

Peter’s voice cracked, “That’s very little consolation now.” He held back the sob that wanted to burst from his depths, “He . . .  he could have died . . . So many times, he almost died. Where was I?”

Scott shook his head now, at loss as to what he could possibly say.

Peter pulled himself ruthlessly together, visibly straightening his hunched shoulders, “But he needs us now, and we can’t fail again. We owe him . . . so much more than we can ever make up for.”

Scott nodded like a puppet jerking at the end of a string. “What do you need me to do?”

**

It was a rough night in Castle Hale.

Peter tried to get in to see Stiles but that hope was cut short by the orders of the Queen and Talia would not lift them, not even for her beloved brother. So Peter sat, on the cold ground outside Stiles’ cell as if by sheer will the young man would be able to feel his presence.

From within Stiles heard the commotion once again and had steeled himself for the doors to be flung open and himself be dragged away to his final moments on earth. The door remained firmly closed. So he curled into his mattress – a bed having been carted in by two silent men about an hour ago – eyes to the door and tried to let his aching body relax. He was afraid to close his eyes but he was just so damn tired . . .

**

John was the first to see the lights of the Castle in the distance. He estimated that it was probably the wee hours of the morning, and based on his years in the battlefield, the sun should probably begin showing its face in another two to three hours, and it would take them that long at least to reach the palace.

He was tired. Sure the journey had been a hard ride with few breaks, and his training meant he knew what long, difficult journeys were all about, it was the mental toll all of it was having on his psyche that he didn’t enjoy.

John liked things in black and white, and where there were shades of grey for those areas to be as minimal and manageable as possible. Here he was working all in grey areas and that would never sit well with him.

Those areas of grey were what led him to researching just how legal Stiles’ dispatch to the Argents had been and his finding of the rules set in place against it. He’d sent one of his trusted men with the information to Peter, but by then there had been so much else going on . . . and now this. He could no longer sit back and hand information over to people who should have rectified the situation but haven’t. He loved Scott like the boy was his own, but even that love could not stop him doing what must be done; even if it cost Scott his marriage, and himself so much more.

**

At first light the first guests began to depart – the ones whose whereabouts could be vouched for and because all guests had been assigned servants to be in their presence at all times, only three guests were unaccounted for at the time of the death.

The Queen had declared celebrations over, something to which both Laura and Jordan agreed. Now was not the time for festivities, plus the Legal Councillor had arrived as well. The Councillor had spoken with the wayward guests first, with Finstock present to represent the Queen, and then with a wary sigh the man had dispatched the three. Seemed they were having a three-way tryst and had the grass stains and abrasions to show for it. The lady had apparently rolled into a patch of itch which had driven the three to seek the doctor’s hasty assistance. It was what the doctor was doing shortly before the alarm sounded and he was summoned to Gerard’s room.

The body had been dispatched to the cellars where it was cooler in hopes that any evidence on the body could be preserved, but not before the legal head himself had okayed such. Talia might be Queen but there were procedures now to be followed. She was determined to get to the bottom of what had transpired in that room with Gerard Argent, but she had serious doubts that Stiles was responsible.

She knew the Councillor would want to speak with both herself and Peter, and his husband, after he had concluded his interviews with Lord Chris and his family. She hoped her brother wouldn’t do anything foolish.

**

Laura and Jordan spent most of the morning dispatching guests. By the time Queen Melissa McCall’s husband breached the gates on horseback, the last family were alighting their carriage to depart. Laura gave her husband a gentle kiss and proceeded indoors to see to her children. While she was heir and by rights would have otherwise been in the middle of these shenanigans, her husband had asked her to excuse herself and to let him and her mother see to what would follow. He wanted Laura to be the one to see to Stiles as was needed. He didn’t trust anyone else to do so.

She’d already been to his cells with the doctor first thing this morning. Laura was perhaps the only Hale Stiles had not encountered on any of his previous unfortunate run-ins at Hale Castle, before he’d been condemned into Gerard Argent’s service. All this meant was that he would likely have a less severe response to her than any of her family.

The boy in question, well – young man really, had been wary and skittish, but otherwise silent except when asked a question. She’d felt ill when Doc Deaton had disrobed the boy with his permission to see to his injuries. The sheer measure of scars and bruises littering his pale skin made her glad she’d yet to break fast this morning. It was as if there had been a concerted attempt to disfigure this boy. There was hardly an inch of skin on his torso not riddled with scars and wounds. And whatever had happened in the Argent’s chambers before Stiles had stumbled into the arms of the guards, left Laura feeling faint.

She’d had to walk away once Deaton started his in-depth examination of the boy’s injuries, present and past.

If there was one thing that always annoyed her about Deaton, but in a superficial way at best, it was his ability to remain impartial and unflappable about most things. She recalled trying her best over the years he had been in the service of her mother to make him lose his cool and losing every single bet she placed about her ability to ruffle him.

When the doors to Stiles’ cell opened to release Deaton after the examination however, for the first time in her life Laura watched as the man visibly composed himself. The brown eyes that lifted to hers pooled with water before the man shook his head, exhaled and shambled with dragging steps from the hallway.

“Deaton,” she’d whispered, scared and with a weight on her chest that she didn’t know what to do with.

He’d only shook his head and continued walking. She’d followed; right into Laura’s own office, situated down the hall from her mother’s.

Her mother, she knew, would be in the courtyard, ‘greeting’ the McCalls, who would be somewhere behind John, who was head of the army. Laura waited as Deaton paced with jerky, disturbed movements. It was long moments before he stopped and turned to her.

“If he wasn’t dead, I’d kill him myself for what has been done to that boy,” he said gravely with a shake of his head.

And for the first time in Laura’s life, she watched the most imperturbable man in her mother’s kingdom dissolve into tears.

 **

Melissa climbed down from the carriage to a stony-faced Talia. The woman look like she’d not slept a wink but her eyes were hard on her allies.

Well this was it, Melissa knew there would be no more hiding. Not now.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fairly long chapter. Only one more to go (hopefully by end of the week) where I’ll try to wrap a lot of things up. I needed to make sure this chapter didn’t clash with anything that came before it ahead of posting, so spent quite a bit of time editing it. Enjoy! (*which suddenly seems like such a cruel thing to say)

“Queen Talia,” John greeted as Talia walked down the castle steps to stand next to Jordan. She nodded to John but could not find the will to muster one of her customary smiles. From everything she’d been told of John’s own role in trying to make sense of Stiles’ situation, trying to find a loophole to free him from Rafael’s clutches for good, she knew he would understand the sombre mood. His own grave countenance said he did.

The carriage with the rest of the McCalls had rattled to a stop and one of the servants had rushed to help the Queen’s descent.

Talia was surprised by the rush of anger she felt at Melissa’s lowered gaze. Hmmm, she wondered when she’d stopped thinking of the other woman as Her Majesty and just relegated her to ‘Melissa’. Maybe it was when her stomach did somersaults as more and more dastardly details of the dealings in the McCall Kingdom came to light.

Even now her brain refused to focus on what this morning’s visit by Doc Deaton would reveal. She’d yet to talk to him about his findings, but she’d arranged for the family physician to visit the boy and see to his wounds this morning, something she was ashamed to think that she hadn’t thought of before, even in the immediate aftermath of the discovery of Gerard’s body.

As she looked at her newest ally, Talia wondered if there even was an excuse, any reason or explanation for what had been allowed to happen to the boy – well, man really, as he was over 20 by now – for all these years. She prayed as she hadn’t in a long time that there was some reason, some . . . something other than the greed, guilt and pride of the McCall family in attempting to conceal their damning secret.

She moved forward with Jordan beside her to welcome her _guests_.

**

Stiles was confused. First by the presence of the doctor, along with the woman he recognised as the heir to the Hale Kingdom, and then fully confounded by everything else that followed.

The doctor had been gentle – frighteningly so. To a point where Stiles, as wary and tired and sore as he was, couldn’t help but flinch at almost every gentle brush of the doctor’s hands. It had been such a long time since anyone touched him with any intent other than to bruise. He still recalled the first time Allison had attempted to hug him and had almost succeeded before fear had him skittering away, heart pounding at what he had almost unwittingly allowed to happen.

He’d immediately confessed the lapse in judgement to the Master because by then he’d known better than to try to hide it. Even his own thoughts sometimes he was afraid not to confess because the consequences of displeasing the Master did not bear thinking about. Even now he still expected that at any moment the Master would walk through the doors, with that frightening smirk on his face and Stiles would be forced to confess that he’d been relieved for a short while, thinking that he was free of service to the Master. He expected that the Master would cackle and admit that everything that had happened was a ruse, to teach him another Godforsaken lesson to be followed by more discipline because he, Stiles, had had the audacity to _think_ he was finally free of his **_duty_**. Of course that discipline would likely be the last thing he knew, ever. Master had threatened often enough.

So as guards and doctors and heirs moved around him, he fought to keep his thoughts blank. _Lessons_ had taught him how unwise thoughts could be. So until he was led to the gallows or he saw the Master’s body sealed and lowered into the ground in a wooden box, never to be exhumed, he’d keep his mind blank. But he had to admit it was a struggle, especially after the doctor’s gentle hands. Hands that had trembled, the further down his body they had travelled.

He’d lain there dispassionately as warm hands and cold objects prodded him a lot more inconspicuously than things normally did. He’d blanked his mind when the doctor, _Alan_ , he reminded himself that the man had said his name was, when ‘Alan’ had instructed him to turn over so he could examine his lower nether regions.

It was in that haze of blankness that he could have sworn he’d heard a moan come from the doctor. But then again, men moaning behind him was also nothing new . . .

What was new was the large tub being dragged in by four guards through the open door of his prison, and the three girls that followed carrying folded cloths, bundles of materials and buckets of water, some with hot curls of steam billowing upwards. The tub looked like the kind used customarily for a bath, but surely it couldn’t be. So, he wondered briefly what fresh hell he was about to endure, because hot, scolding water was also not a new _lesson_ for Stiles. Not by any stretch of the imagination.

But he quickly tamped down on that thought too. That way lay emotions and emotions were **_dangerous_**.

**

“Your Majesty,” Melissa said as she came to stop in front of Talia. The Queen offered her neither handshake nor cheek to kiss and Melissa’s heart sank.

 _So this was how it would be_ , she thought, but Talia’s eyes were already rising to behind her and hardening on the Duke, who climbed from the carriage with his usual arrogance like he hadn’t a care in the world; like he was centre stage and these were his puppets.

Before he could even bade her greeting, Talia turned away with a dry and emotionless, “Please, come.”

The party moved indoors, led by the Queen’s personal guard Liam, followed by Jordan, Talia, Melissa, Raphael, John and Finstock pulling up the rear, from where he had remained at a tense ease just inside the castle doors. There was nothing but the clatter of footsteps down the corridors, which was eerie given the recent festivities, the colossal confusion that followed and the fact that a castle such as this still had hundreds of servants. Now, not a single servant could be found scurrying around inside as was wont to happen in any palace; nothing but guards posted at intervals along the long passage. It was as if a decree had been issued and every servant not immediately tending to horses, carriages and bags had made him- and herself invisible or at the very least, scarce.

Liam and Jordan stood back as Talia swept through the doors of her office and once everyone was inside the door clicked shut – again with a hush that was as scary as it was unexpected given the size of those doors. Peter, Scott, Allison, Victoria and Chris were all standing inside, waiting.

Melissa gave Scott a questioning look when he didn’t immediately rush to greet her.

“Honey?” she queried and he dropped his head, staring instead at his feet.

When a cursory glance at the rest of the gathered audience showed varying levels of disdain, Melissa turned in alarm to look at the Queen.

Before she could ask, Rafael blustered, “And what is **_this_** , _Your Majesty_?”

His voice carried a measure of scorn Talia did not care for; not even a little and would tolerate even less. He might not be one of her subjects, but he’d damn well and respect her station.

Her voice was quiet but firm when she replied, “I shall not repeat myself when I say to you, _Duke Rafael,_ that today is not a day for bluster or disrespect. Everyone in this room is desirous of settling this matter. So today, is not the day, and I am in no mood to be trifled with, _even if I am a woman_.” The last was said with a whispered warning and a near sneer because she knew quite well his views on women with power.

When he opened his lips for a hasty and sharp retort, she overrode him. “In the McCall Kingdom I know you enjoy a certain level of authority with the Council; these are not McCall Lands, _Duke Rafael_ ,” she took one step forward to within an arm’s length of him, “and I am not your sister or your concubine! So you **will** respect me in my own damn castle.”

Melissa swallowed as her brother’s jaws clenched at Talia’s show of command and the warning that had just been issued.

Talia turned her back and paced back to where she had been, Rafael obviously dismissed.

The Duke cast a glance at John as if to indicate that the Captain should do something about this. John merely raised a single eyebrow and looked to his wife. Melissa once again dropped her gaze and to her brother’s disgust said, “I apologise if my brother might have seemed less than respectful in his address, Your Majesty. I can assure you the McCall Kingdom respects you and your rule.”

Talia nodded, but her face remained stern. “Please sit. We have much to discuss.”

“How is Stiles?” Melissa asked, glancing from the Queen to Scott, but letting her gaze skate across the others in the room.

A hush followed the question before Allison demanded, “Why do you care?” To which her  mother laid a restraining hand on her arm.

“Of course I care.” Melissa’s voice broke as her eyes flew wide.

“Well he’s alive, and he’ll be looked after now that grandfather is **dead**.” Allison continued roughly, shaking off her mother’s attempts at restraint.

“Oh, really?” Rafael sneered. “The last I checked, the boy was still my servant, _on loan_ , to your grandfather, but still very much mine,” his gaze landed and stayed on Peter before turning to Queen Talia, “and I’m afraid the murder of a noble is no small matter, and whatever Stiles’ role in Lord Argent’s death will be dealt with  . . . **by me**.”

“And this is where the problem lies,” Talia said, as she could see Peter’s hand balling into a fist in an attempt to hold himself back. “The question before us all is what exactly **_is_** Stiles’ status . . . _to you_.” Talia mocked his phasing and had the pleasure of watching his eyes narrow and then widen as he started to get an inkling of what was being hinted.

Rafael’s eyes flew to his sister and there was some measure of silent communication before he said, strained, “I can’t imagine what you mean, Your Majesty.”

Talia was sure if she had enhanced senses that despite his attempt to remain dispassionate and composed, she would have been able to smell and hear the beginnings of the panic she knew was creeping up on the Duke.

“Who is Stiles, Duke Rafael?”

Now she was sure his heart was thundering in his chest. Even as he crossed legs to appear unconcerned, the brief flutter of his hands called him a liar. “He is the son of a former servant to my family. A servant who came from a long line of servants.”

“Yes, let’s talk about that servant,” Talia continued. “A servant who was Lady in Waiting to your sister, I believe.”

The room heard John’s gasped, “What!?”

**

John heard the buzzing in his own ears and felt the goose pimples race across his skin. What were they saying?

He attempted to stand but his legs would not support him. He looked to Melissa is disbelief and saw the shame and guilt that paid truth to the claim.

“He couldn’t be. She . . . she was never pregnant . . . we never . . .”

It was his greatest regret when he had returned home to a promised reunion long fizzled. His head swam as he recalled the missive that had alerted him to Claudia’s illness and then untimely death – ‘by fever’. He’d been planning a fine proposal and engagement for after he returned from his campaigns abroad, but sadly he never got the chance due to King McCall’s extension of the expedition, and then the loss of his only love. In fact, it was one of the reasons he had delayed coming home for so many years.

“How . . .?”

His heart felt like it was seizing in his chest and he heard Scott sob and saw the tears roll down Melissa’s face.

“I thought this was a meeting to discuss my servant’s role in the death of Lord Gerard. If it is not, then my sister and I will collect our servant and leave,” Rafael blustered.

“Yes, let’s talk about that. Let’s discuss how he became **_your_** servant, instead of the title he should have had, as the son of a Duke.”

“ _That little bastard?!_ ” Rafael scoffed, as if the mere suggestion offended him.

John felt a coldness engulf him, so frigid was this anger that came out of nowhere that he was vaguely aware of Jordan, Liam and Chris Argent holding him back as words flew out of his mouth that he couldn’t even hear.

Rafael scrambled from his chair and scurried across the room as everyone else flew to their feet at the unexpected explosion from the Captain. Allison had pulled a crying Scott into her chest and just held him.

Rafael turned a scorned gaze on Scott. “You betrayed your family for this? This!?”

He swung on Talia, “You have no sway over me, _Queen_. When the Council hears about this . . . this charade, it will be just what we need to end this sham of a treaty, and you _sister_ , will have a time explaining how this was allowed to happen. Now I will take my _servant_ and go, unless you are charging him with murder!”

Talia waited and hoped she was not wrong in her judgement of the other Queen. _Now was the time, Melissa. Prove me right about your character!_ she thought.

Melissa stepped forward from where she had been huddled into herself and walked over to John, still straining against the hands of the three gentlemen.

“I’m so sorry, John. There was nothing I could do. By the time I got her to confess what he’d done, what had happened, our father had already decree how it was to be dealt with. I couldn’t do anything,” she cried, but even to her own ears the plea rang hollow.

“How about help her son!? Your nephew! Oh my God! You kept this from me. How could you?” John collapsed like a puppet whose strings had been cut. “Is this why? Why you were there to offer comfort about Claudia? Was it guilt that led you to offer your hand to me? To shut me up? To stop me finding out the truth?”

Melissa raised a trembling hand to her lips as her eyes once again scanned the room at the looks of censure and heartache.

“Maybe you couldn’t do anything then, but what’s your excuse now, Melissa. Are you Queen or will you remain a pawn for every wrong doing he perpetuates while you reign?” Talia stated.

“Melissa . . .,” the Duke’s voice was hard with warning and the Queen turned to him.

“No more, Rafael . . . No more.”

He growled in anger and stomped to the doors, yelling. “Take me to my servant at once!” His head swung toward Talia. “You have no power to hold him here. Release him to me at once.”

“No, Raf. Stiles is free of you as of now. As is my right to do as his Queen . . . and his aunt.”

“You can’t do this! He’s my . . .”

“ **Don’t**. **You**. **Dare** **_SAY IT!_** ” John’s voice echoed off the chamber walls. “I swear by all that is holy, if you _dare_ to call him your son I _will_ take your head off where you stand.”

“You would dare to threaten me? You, who my sister elevated from a commoner?!”

“You’re done, Rafael. Go now, while you still can,” Melissa begged.

Rafael goggled at her, before his face pinched. With one last hostile look around the room, the Duke huffed his exit.

Liam followed.

**

The utter gall of them. How **dare** _they_!?

Rafael was seething, and even more as he realised that that _lackey_ of the _Queen_ was dogging his every step from the castle.

Stiles belonged to them and come whatever may, he’d be his again. It had been an extreme pleasure over the years to watch his sister cringe whenever she saw a new bruise on the boy, and observe her husband, the ‘Good and Loved Captain John’, as he interacted with the boy over the years, sometimes with a puzzled frown that said something was tickling at his brain that he just could not parse. Rafael had delighted in knowing that the more Stiles grew, the more he looked like his mother, and the more the Captain was drawn to him though the man seemed unable to determine why.

Rafael knew. And he delighted in the confusion. In fact, it caused him no little amount of satisfaction and pride. It had pleased him to claim what was John’s, given his own father’s pride in the man, a pride that he never held for Rafael, but gave in spades to this commoner that he eventually elevated to lead his armies.

Rafael must admit he’d been surprised when the King had sought to help conceal his own anger at John that had led to his attack on Claudia. He’d seen the anger in his father’s eyes and then the despair. Rafael was certain then that he would have been fed to the wolves, that his father would have offered him up – but the man came through, counselling Claudia and getting her eventual agreement to giving birth to the bastard child.

A renewed anger had engulfed him then when he realised the King’s intention, to keep the boy near instead of shipping him off somewhere. And just Rafael had dealt with Melissa’s first husband (the man asked too many questions), so too had he dealt with his father. The fact that Captain John no longer needed to be diverted to stay away from Kingdom McCall because his love was dead, worked in Rafael’s favour. By the time the man returned, Melissa was firmly under his thumb and so was Stiles.

But now, they were trying to take it all from him – his power over his sister; over his progeny and over the Kingdom. They would know before long why he was feared, even if he wasn’t respected, like the “good Captain” was.

**

“We just let him go? After everything he’s done?” Allison asked in disbelief.

“I have no proof, of anything save the words of a woman dead these past more than 20 years now. The Council, even those that know would never find him at fault, not even if they were standing in the room when it happened.” Melissa said, pained.

“What about what he’s done to Stiles?” Allison was getting angrier by the minute, “Surely we can do something about that?”

“Not without Stiles’ accounts of his abuse, and even then, it’ll be hard to get a conviction against a Duke to the Council and the Courts, who on McCall lands might as well be one and the same,” Chris said in monotone. “After everything that boy . . . Stiles has been through, do we even want to put him through more?”

“I think the better question here and now, is what will the Duke do?” Jordan asked quietly looking to Melissa.

“He’ll fight me for the throne, of that I am sure,” she said despondently. “And he will win, especially with the Council backing him – and they will”

Liam returned, caught the Queen’s eye and nodded. She knew that meant they were guards escorting the Duke from Hale lands, but even his banishment brought her no easement. “Dammit. No!” Talia declared. “Enough. He’ can’t win. Not like this. If the Duke wants a fight, he’ll get one. The first thing we will do is make sure Stiles is safe. From this moment forward he will be safe.”

Liam was already nodding, “I’ve already dispatched a few more guards to see to it, Your Majesty.”

“Now we use our alliances. That vile excuse for a man will not win this time. He violated a woman, impregnated her and then took her child and made a victim of him. What Stiles has suffered even our lowest servants never bear. This cannot stand and as long as you are willing to fight for your kingdom, Melissa, the Hale Kingdom will stand with you.”

Another wave of tears rolled down her cheeks. “After everything I’ve done?” she glanced at her husband who was quiet and subdued back in one of the chairs.

“Well, we start again; and start with making things right with Stiles. He has a right to know the things no one has ever told him.”

“I’ll do it,” John spoke up, exhausted now after Rafael’s departure. “He deserves to know who his mother was.” John pushed himself to his feet and started toward the doors before stopping again. He turned back to his wife. “How did she really die?”

“Child birth. They couldn’t stop the bleeding.”

John nodded and turned away from her. Peter moved to go with him but John raised a staying hand. “No, no one else. Not now. Maybe not ever. That’s Stiles’ decision from here on.

“One of the things I found out over the past few weeks is that King McCall had made arrangements for Stiles to be taken care of, arrangements that were hidden by Rafael’s greed and vindictiveness. All of the lies to and about this boy end now. **_No one_** else gets to hurt him anymore.”

The room was quiet as John delivered his decree.

“I’ll show you the way,” Jordan said, and left with the Captain.

When the doors closed behind them Melissa dissolved into tears again. She knew without a doubt she’d lost him for good. Scott, understanding, finally went to her side.

Talia with the wave of a hand, drew Liam and Finstock close and began to strategise. After a moment, Allison, then Chris, and Victoria joined them.

Peter lowered himself into the chair he’d vacated and stared into nothingness.

**

When the doors opened again, Stiles now didn’t know what to expect. But Captain John entering certainly was not it. He went rigid, sure this was it. This was his last moments on earth and that Duke Rafael had sent the Captain of the Guard, the Queen’s husband to see to it.

Clean for the first time in forever, Stiles watched warily from where he was perched on the edge of his bed.

“Hello, Stiles.”

“Hello, Captain John, Your Highness.”

“No need for titles. Today I’m just John.” John said with a rush of feeling for the bruises still evident on the boy. “How are you feeling?”

Stiles raised a sore shoulder into what could be interpreted as an absent shrug. His mouth suddenly dry even as he struggled not to imagine what was ahead of him.

“I want to talk to you about a few things, Stiles.”

Stiles nodded, nervous and anxious. _Maybe Gerard had survived. That could be it. That could be why they weren’t dragging him from the cells in manacles._

“You’re sending me back.”

It was said with such a lack of emotion that John’s muddled and too full brain stalled for a moment. “Back?”

“To Master.”

John lowered his bulk slowly beside Stiles on the bed. The young man eased away slightly, as if afraid to be too near. Afraid to show any measure of trust. John couldn’t blame him.

“Gerard is dead, Stiles. There is no ‘going back to him’. Ever!”

“Are you sure? Did you see the body?”

“No, but I am sure he’s dead. It’s why I’m here.”

Stiles sighed. “I don’t remember doing it,” he confessed. He raised tired and disillusioned eyes to the Captain, one so bruised it was bloodshot. “Is that why they did this?” He held up hands to indicate his new clothes and clean skin. “They could have left me in my old clothes. Blood is blood, no need to waste money when the clothes will only get stained again.”

**

John swallowed thickly and tried not to think about what the kid would have looked like before in his previous clothing to make such a claim and what Gerard could have done to leave him looking like this. All he could offer were new assurances that the boy’s life of pain was at an end.

“You are not going to the gallows, Stiles.”

This timid child, in the body of a young man who’d suffered too much already by the looks of him, was too afraid of his own shadow furthermore to have been able to inflict the kinds of killing blows dealt to Gerard. Jordan had provided enough of the graphic details as they’d travelled to the cells, for John to have known instinctively that the killer was not yet caught. And if the Councillor who had cleared the guests, the Hales, Argents and the lone McCall in the castle at the time of the murder of its commission was to be believed, then there were definitely factors at play other than those associated with the obvious suspects.

He found he didn’t mind so much, the unanswered questions, knowing the measure of the man who was murdered. Even now his blood boiled at the thought that the Duke had walked away a free man.

“So what’s going to happen to me? Am I going back to Duke Rafael?”

“No!” John’s response came out harsher than he wanted and he deliberately softened his tone when Stiles flinched in reaction. “No, never. That man will never lay another hand on you.”

The whiskey eyes that looked up at him . . . Claudia’s eyes – _how could he never have realised before_ . . . were hesitant to take him at his word but something like hope flickered in their depths.

“I promise you he’ll never hurt you again.”

**

Stiles’ heart tripped and skipped and lurched. _Did he dare believe it? He didn’t know. He just didn’t know._

John had never been the type to use words idly or falsely. He’d on occasion gone out of his way to be kindly to Stiles when their paths had infrequently crossed. Stiles had tried to stay out of his way as much as possible because there were occasions when the Captain would given him deep penetrating glances tinged with puzzlement that Stiles knew would bring nothing good if the man was able to figure out whatever it was he was working through in that sharp brain of his. It was always when John was in residence at Castle McCall that Rafael was at his most devious and Stiles would suffer some new “accident”.

But now, now he so wanted to believe the Captain, but lessons had taught him to be cautious. Self-preservation had taught him to observe more and be less eager to trust.

Those hard taught and brutal lessons had been his saving grace many times with the Master. He clung to that caution now.

**

John couldn’t identify all of the emotions that quickly flitted across Stiles’ face, almost like they weren’t there, before the boy went blank again.

He felt a surge of protectiveness for this severely abused, scared and emotionally stunted boy, who could just as easily have been his son, had not for Rafael’s cruelty. It burned to think of the fact that he, John, hadn’t been there. That he had been on expedition during the time she was pregnant. That even in the months between letters, when he did manage to be in a place where he could send replies, even if it took weeks to arrive, that she never once told him she was pregnant. Never once hinted at what had happened to her, what had been done to her. He wondered at how scared she must have been of Rafael and found himself damnably wondering how bruised and battered she might have been after the ordeal. If Stiles’ injuries due to Rafael were any indication then . . . his stomach cramped at the thought so he put that one on hold.

He would have expected so much more of King McCall in the aftermath, but so much of his life was now tied up in a shamble of lies. Lies meant to conceal this boy’s heritage and birth right.

He reached out slowly and covered one of Stiles’ balled fists with a flat palm, gradually curling his fingers around it. The boy jolted but didn’t pull away.

“We need to talk about your mother, Stiles. There are things you need to know about who she really was.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to finish this a week ago, but work, projects and exam prep . . . need I say more? But this is the last chapter.  
> Thank all you amazing people who returned to continue the saga even after leaving it in limbo for a few months while I renewed myself to write again. The last chapter is more of a narrative than anything and I trust you’ll enjoy it. I have no plans to turn this into any kind of sequel, I don’t have the heart for it, but thank you all for reading.

Stiles didn’t know what to feel. He had no words for any of the emotions rioting through him right now.

His whole life had been a lie. Everyone around him had lied to him. He knew his mother had been a servant, but had been told his father was too. It was why he accepted that he’d never be anything more – condemned to servitude, all his life.

But _they’d lied to him_.

He knew he should be angry, incensed even, but he’d been taught to fear emotions and even now it was hard to bring those to bear on all John had told him. And he still didn’t know why he deserved this man’s kindness, and was more than a little afraid to accept it.

The man in question sat beside him silent, after the last few hours of laying it all out to him. Stiles recognised now for the first time that they hadn’t closed and locked the doors after the Captain had entered. The doors still lay ajar and the sparse light from the few peep holes in the room told him it was late evening at the most – darkness had already begun to fall.

“You knew her . . . _my mother_?” The word, one he hadn’t thought about in any real way in years, came out in a wheeze, almost like Stiles was afraid to voice the word, furthermore the question.

“Yes, I did. I loved her; I would have married her. We had talked about it, but my role in the army prevented it before I left on campaign for the King,” John explained.

 _You could have been mine!_ John’s mind thought it; had been mulling over it since he found out the boy was Claudia’s but even now he dared not voice it. He was sure it would not be welcomed. Not yet, but maybe eventually . . .?

“Hmmm,” was the young man’s only response to what John shared.

The Captain suspected Stiles was internalising and thinking through everything he’d been told and checking for traps and pitfalls, which wouldn’t surprise John in the least. Stiles had clearly learnt the value of being cautious, and behaviour beaten into anyone through torture – because what Stiles had endured was nothing but the most vile of torture – was sometimes engrained, perhaps for life.

“What happens now?”

“Well, that’s up to you,” John confessed. “I’ll be by your side, no matter what you choose but the McCalls owe you Stiles. Your grandfather had set arrangements aside for you and you are welcomed to call on those now to help with your recovery.”

Stiles scoffed even as his head dropped.

“They **_owe_** you,” John insisted.

“Yeah? I don’t know . . . Isn’t it wrong to take anything from them now?” Stiles’ hands clenched, so tight in his lap John was sure they’d leave bruises . . . even more bruises. “I don’t think I can see them now . . .”

“That’s ok. You won’t have to unless you want to. And it’s not wrong to accept what’s rightfully yours. In fact, I think it’s way less than you deserve . . .” When Stiles frowned, John rushed to add, “You shouldn’t see it as anything but a chance at a new life, a new beginning. You can start over, Stiles, with just you calling the shots this time.”

The eyes that looked up at him, one still heavily bloodshot, flickered. It was the first time John could clearly identify an emotion clear as day, since he came into this room and it rolled his stomach that that sole emotion was fear. It didn’t sit right with him that this boy should be afraid of anything.

“You can start over,” John reiterated, anger firming his shoulders.

“Alone?” Stiles whispered, voice shaking.

And John pause. During his walk to the cells with Jordan, the more the Prince had revealed of what he knew, the more a plan started forming in John’s mind but he didn’t know if it would be welcomed. So he said gently, trying not to instill more fear, “Not if you don’t want. I’m offering to go with you – wherever it is you wish to go.”

“But you’re the Queen’s husband,” Stiles said, eyes narrowing with suspicion as he edged away a little. He’d had enough of men being near him, wanting to use him, taking liberties with him. He was so tired of watching everyone’s motives. So very tired.

But John, John had somehow always been kind and that fact almost inspired hope – but hope was a dangerous little thing as well.

“Not for much longer,” the Captain confessed, reminding Stiles of what he’d asked. “I’m sure she will dissolve our union soon, things being what they are . . . But the question is, Do you want me with you, Stiles? I can be your own personal bodyguard if you wish. Nothing more or less than you want me to be,” John reassured, correctly interpreting the reason for Stiles’ brief flinch away from him.

He wished, once again, that he could have killed Rafael for what he’d done to both the love of his life and the son she bore.

Stiles sat for a long moment in silence. “What if I don’t feel safe to settle anywhere on these lands?” Again it was asked softly.

“Then we travel. There’s a whole world worth visiting, if that’s what you wish.”

Stiles looked up at him again, as if weighing his character, his offer, his resolve. Finally, as something quickly flickered in the depths of his gaze, he said. “Ok.”

**

Rafael spent the day after he arrived back at his estates drafting letters he wished to send out to his more vicious of allies. While his sister had been courting kingdoms of like interest, the Duke had been wooing – quite successfully – interests of a different, darker kind. He was currently surrounding himself with several people whose morals were less than respectable. Just the kind of people he needed in his corner now. It was to these he looked, especially after his whore of a sister and that Hale bitch send down word that he was to be stripped of his title. _Stripped of his birth-right!_ That he would not abide.

But Melissa and the Hale bitch had already begun accumulating allies to their camps, no doubt in preparation for his retaliation. To his surprise there were fewer members of the council willing to stand by him than he thought after he’d sent his own word out to them expecting them to help him unseat Melissa and claim her throne. It had come as a shock and a blow, though it should not have – _the yellow belly cowards_ , all talk and no action when it most counted. But no fear, they too would learn their error.

So he planned clandestine liaisons, sent his spies out to bring back word to him – sent one especially to find out the fate of his most valuable possession, Stiles. Then he left orders to pack up his house, took his prized pieces and baubles and prepared to disappear into the night, into hiding until he could set his war into action.

And he grinned as he plotted it all in his mind – how it would unfold, the excruciating pain he would cause that snippet of a boy when he finally got hold of him again. If he thought what he’d suffered at Argent’s hands was as bad as it could get then Rafael had so much more to teach him.

Then he set off, under the cover of night with just a sole trusted guard at his side. A man who had always thought the old King should have promoted him instead of the bastard John Stilinski. The man would be rewarded well once Rafael took control of the kingdom that should have been his had it not been for a few minutes difference in birth, and make no mistake, Kingdom McCall would be his soon.

That night they stopped to rest, setting up a small quiet camp just outside the edges of McCall lands, Rafael vowing he would return sooner than anyone hoped. He was headed to the lands ruled by a Lord known only as Deucalion. A warlord rumoured to be a swift with violence as he was with coin. Rafael had more than enough of both to entice a man who craved power like Deucalion did. He’d make a worthy ally in the war to come and the spoils would be more than enough to share.

As he curled up under blankets, with stars twinkling above, the quarter moon the only light permeating their small camp of two partially hidden tents, Rafael allowed another smile to grace his lips, already tasting the victories to come.

Such was his satisfaction with himself that when the hand covered his lips for a second he was disoriented and puzzled, thinking his guard had come to bring warning of danger nearby, not thinking for a moment that the danger was already beneath his tent; that was until the blade was shoved into his spleen with such force that it struck bone and stuck for a moment before the assailant dragged it free, taking pieces of flesh on the serrated edge.

He gasped, as much as could be allowed with a hand covering his mouth and half his nostrils. He struggled for air as a piercing, sharp pain rattled up his back like a raging fire, consuming as it spread. Then the vicious voice whispered, warm air puffing across his left ear moments before the blade plunged deep again – “This is for Stiles. You shall never again cause him pain because you’ll be busy in hell with your own.”

He wanted to trash and scream and moan and fight, but the sticky wet beneath him told him he was losing blood too fast; the haze around his vision told him he would not see daylight as the blade sank in a third time with a pain that was blinding in it sharpness and then his assailant ripped upward and he suddenly knew nothing more.

The killer spent another three minutes making sure there would be nothing to revive should the body be found before he was ‘dead cold’, and the blue eyes that looked up to the sky moments later finally felt a release that his love would have one less worry in this brutal world, wherever he might now be.

At first light the bodyguard would find the mutilated body, drawing back the curtain to startle the hyena already feeding on the congealed carcass. He’d lose last night’s dinner in the bushes before quietly making his way south, leaving camp, body and everything else behind – wondering that he never heard a sound in the night despite sleeping less than 20 feet away. He hoped he could find a nearby town to blend into soon and quickly and hopefully forget he’d ever known the name McCall. As he rode away he wondered why he’d been left alive, but decided he’d rather not look a gift horse in the mouth and spurned his horse quickly forward.

**

“Peter! Where the hell have you been?” Talia rushed up to him scared. She’d had servants scouring the palace for the last two days since he disappeared from her offices and even his husband did not know where to.

She’d been afraid of what he would do, especially when John returned and announced that he was taking Stiles and leaving the Hale and McCall Lands, maybe forever. He’d told his wife, in front of them all that he could not think on their union at the moment and she was free to take whatever action she would to dissolve their marriage as she saw fit. He would not contest it, would not fight her on it, but he would demand what was rightfully Stiles’, to help the boy recover.

Scott had then asked what they’d all wanted to – could they see him. But John had put a halt to even the merest thought of it.

“Stiles has been through more than any man should bear. He’s been lied to, betrayed, tortured and taught pain and fear in ways no one should. He does not wish at this time to have contact with anyone else. He’s barely agreed to let me accompany him. If he ever returns and desires it, he will contact you, but for now, leave him alone, and that’s not up for debate or discussion.” The last was said with a final glance at Peter, who had gone even paler than he was before.

 _Stiles was leaving him, again. He was losing him again_. Peter’s mind could barely hold the thought.

“I’ll make sure you have whatever he needs,” Melissa promised straightening her back, while tears pooled in her eyes.

“Tell him I’m sorry,” Peter had gasped then. “Tell him, I love him.”

John barely speared him a glance before jerking his head in semblance of a nod and leaving the room.

**

_ EPILOGUE _

And that was how Stiles and John, over the next eight years became first travelling companions, then friends, then almost like father and son – as much as Stiles would allow such a concession to feelings of familial love.

There were years on lands John had travelled on his campaigns and even more on those he hadn’t. They travelled for wonder, for experiences, but mostly for Stiles’ peace of mind. It was years of more than a few stops and starts as Stiles healed, first in body and later, much, much later, in mind. There were still triggers, things John learnt, especially in that first year that he could never do around Stiles – NOT EVER.

The young man refused to take baths any warmer than tepid and never with anyone else in the room. He slept with a candle or some form of light in the room at all times and a knife beneath his pillow, and he was deathly afraid of the dark – John learnt that lesson the hard way and shuddered every time he remembered the first time he’d doused a room in darkness after Stiles had nodded off. The screams John awoke to still haunt his dreams.

No one was ever allowed at Stiles’ back without his knowledge and consent. He always sat facing the door to a room and scanned everyone who entered as if judging their character by their appearance.

But eventually he learnt to laugh again, and John found out first-hand what a little shit he could be. Brilliant, curious, sarcastic and with a snark John found himself equally drawn to and exasperated by.

And Stiles eventually allowed himself to be held again. It took near four years, but they got to a point where John could absently ruffle his hair or squeeze his shoulder in support and have Stiles not jump right out of his skin. It was slow, but it was progress.

But then sometimes he’d get that look in his eyes, far-away and pained, and John knew in those moments it was not Rafael or Gerard Argent that came to mind; this pain was more heart deep and it usually followed his careful observation of couples on honeymoon or openly showing affection of each other. When those times crept up on them he’d allow Stiles a few days of silence, to pull his walls back up, his mind back together, even if John could offer nothing for his heart.

It was also one of the NEVER lessons. John could NEVER talk about Peter Hale.

So when after little more than six years Stiles said he was ready to settle down, John was certain they would be calling some far off land that Stiles had been enamoured with home. There were so many. But a week later found them heading back in the direction of more familiar territory and for a moment he was worried – worried about the memories returning – though in truth they’d never left. Stiles just got better at coping, pushing the nightmares away more quickly through pretty much pure pigheadedness. The young man had a stubborn streak a mile long and just as wide. He was just like his mother that way.

But he’d grown more confident in the time they spent together, to the point where even when they argued and Stiles raised his voice (maybe especially then), John felt such pride even if he couldn’t and wouldn’t show it. If there was one thing Stiles would not tolerate, it was any form of pity, no matter how well-meaning.

That avoidance of any semblance of weakness meant that regardless of where they went, Stiles remained inevitably fully clothed. Even when they’d spent a few months on board a fishing vessel because Stiles wanted the mindless experience of it; when the young men stripped down to their breaches while mocking up the deck or just fooling around, Stiles remained carefully dressed. The first time one of the lads saw his scars was the last time anyone saw his scars. Something else they’d learnt not to talk about although John truthfully didn’t know whether that was a good thing or no.

It was to John’s immense surprise when they finally entered McCall lands, he and Stiles now with a team of trusted ‘servants’ they’d collected along the way – if the stubborn loyal vagabonds could be called servants. Most were formerly ill-treated wards, slaves or the homeless they’d encountered on their journeys – eight in total. Stiles had sent five of them ahead with instructions to secure a house and prepare it for his and John’s return, and with a letter to notify the palace they would be settling in the territory – something he and John had argued long and hard about.

Stiles was intent on forcing John to talk to his wife. After so many years, Melissa had still not divorced him to his everlasting surprise.

They’d heard of Rafael’s death of course – how could they not. They’d also heard of the arrest of a servant in the Hale Kingdom for Gerard’s murder, though the young man had been pardoned after three years in the cells due to extenuating circumstances. They didn’t know what those circumstances were and John didn’t try too hard to find out. He was still wary of bringing up anything to do with Gerard around Stiles. It wasn’t as much of a lesson or rule as it was John being protective and prudent where Stiles was concerned.

Their moving into the small mansion on the edge of McCall Lands occurred without too much fanfare. Over the next weeks many would drop by to pay their respect to the new Duke in residence, Queen Melissa having restored Stiles’ rightful title following Rafael’s death, although Stiles abhorred the use of it and refused to refer to himself by it.

John was the first to make the trek to the palace, alone, and returned that night a little rosy cheeked, having had supper with his wife.

“So it was good then?” Stiles asked, looking up from the book in which he was deeply engrossed.

John blushed and nodded. Stiles smiled. “Good!” and returned to his book.

**

Stiles had come to appreciate John’s steady presence in his life over the past seven-and-a-half years. The man had proved himself worthy to be trusted and a good friend to Stiles.

John had cried bitterly just months before when Stiles had introduced him to a man he was entering a business relationship with, as his father. Maybe he should have discussed it with John first, but he wouldn’t take it back. John was the first Stiles had come to anyone fatherly in all his life. He would never take it back.

The first time John spent the night at the palace, Stiles went to bed with a wry smile on his face. He may not be ready to acknowledge Melissa as his aunt or stepmother as the case may be, but John deserved some happiness and over the years he’d come to realise the man did love his wife, even if he didn’t know if he could trust her. But Stiles knew trust could be earned. He just hoped she could be worthy of it, because if she hurt or betrayed John again, Stiles would not care she was a Queen, he’d gladly go to the gallows for her murder.

And his business thrived. His time spent on the fishing vessel had taught him a lot. He’d spent as much time as a deck hand as he’d spent with the captain of the vessel learning all about the seas and the vessels that sailed them. He was convinced he could make a profitable shipping venture for all the things the lands locked together without a harbour needed, by forming the right alliances. So with that one fisherman and many others he came to know, Stiles had spent the years fleshing out the inner workings of a trade built on the fishing ports and carriages – he still feared them, but at least didn’t have to travel in them too often. But several of the fishing towns had been dying due to smaller and smaller catches of fish. He’d managed to convince a few to turn their vessels to alternate uses and so **Stilinski Shipping** was born.

With John’s extensive military contacts and strategies, as well as his wider respect by all who knew his name, they built a strong business they were both proud of.

So in year eight, the knock on the door that should have been Lord Elmerson with the papers for the new merger to would expand the business towards the Orient, turned into a visit that threatened to set him back to a place he would have rather not revisit. But the face, one that featured in his dreams and still made his heart gallop at amazing speeds, was the last one he expected.

Of course he’d heard of the dissolution of their marriage. He’d heard that Scott had shortly thereafter remarried the Argent heiress. Somewhere deep that he still wasn’t ready to look at, he was pleased his ‘cousin’ had found some happiness. News was that Peter, meanwhile, had returned home to his family’s kingdom and sat on his sister’s right hand as her trusted advisor. His hand at strategy was becoming widely known, and even though he never discussed it, Stiles knew he had been in contact with John for advice on expanding the relations between the Hale and McCall kingdoms. He’d heard the name in passing in his home but had tried not to pay attention.

It was still too raw a wound and he wasn’t ready. And time had passed and he’d gotten stronger, in body, in mind and in business – even if his spirit was still a bit shaky at times.

So Peter’s careful and emotionally blank face on his doorstep on this particular day he could do without. He wasn’t ready. He’d never be ready. Not for Peter Hale.

“Hello, Stiles.”

Stiles took a deep shaky breath to respond, “Prince,” and saw a brief wrinkle of Peter’s eyebrows. He’d once loved to trace them with an absent finger after they’d . . . he cut that thought off. He didn’t know if he could say his name or if it would lodge in his throat as it did in his heart anytime he let the memories in.

When they’d stood longer than appropriate, Stiles’ valet Isaac, whom he’d managed to lure away from Castle Hale cleared his throat. Stiles blinked and moved back as Isaac rushed forward, “Welcome, Your Highness.”

“Good to see you, Isaac,” Peter responded with a small smile, stepping inside and shedding his gloves and coat, before turning once again to Stiles. “Can we talk?”

Maybe it was time. Maybe the fluttering in his stomach would ease soon and his knees would straighten out instead of wanting to buckle beneath him.

“You said you loved me,” it came tumbling out from who knows where, and as Peter’s eyes flew wide, Stiles mentally berated himself. _Idiot! Idiot, that was eight years ago, of course he’s moved on._

“Yes, I did.” Peter stepped closer. “I do.”

And Stiles’ startled and cautious gaze clashed and held onto those crystalline blues that would never leave his dreams. He told his heart to shut the hell up, and shoved his shaking hands behind his back, clenching them together to centre himself.

A drip of the fear and anger he’d thought he’d rid himself of so long ago flared for a brief moment at Peter’s confession, but the uncertainty and regret in Peter’s eyes stayed Stiles’ acerbic tongue and all the accusations that laid there.

It wasn’t an ideal reunion, but then again this was no fairy-tale of happily ever afters. So maybe, just maybe they’d see.

-END-

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for stopping in. Tell me what you think - find me on [**Tumblr**](http://deislandgirl-blog.tumblr.com)


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